


Broken Silence

by WitchImage



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Reluctant Affections, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 200,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchImage/pseuds/WitchImage
Summary: After being expelled from an American school, you are relocated to Hogwarts for your seventh year. Two nights before commencement, you meet a tall, dark stranger in a local pub. Passions flair, and the two of you find yourselves entangled in a heated one night stand.Only afterwards, when you reach your new school, do you find out the stranger is your Potions Master, Severus Snape.Despite your professor’s guilt and reluctance, the two of you are drawn to each other, both in body and mind. A hesitant friendship begins...but neither of you are happy just being friends.A Severus Snape x Reader romance.
Relationships: Severus Snape & Original Character(s), Severus Snape & Original Female Character(s), Severus Snape & Reader, Severus Snape & You, Severus Snape x Reader, Severus Snape/Original Character(s), Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s), Severus Snape/Reader, Severus Snape/You
Comments: 1080
Kudos: 1310





	1. Destructive Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a Snape/Reader romance, so I've completely overhauled this story and reuploaded :)
> 
> You begin as a seventh-year at Hogwarts, legally of age (18-years-old) but the story will continue beyond graduation in later chapters. The first year you come to Hogwarts is 1994 — Goblet of Fire era. Events herein will progress alongside the book.
> 
> You can obviously imagine any Snape you prefer. Alan Rickman and Adam Driver are both excellent choices. Though if you have others, please let me know, as this is a topic I am extremely interested in. Personally, I imagine Snape a lot like a taller, broader version of the guy in the amazing fan film "Severus Snape and the Marauders." Mmmm...
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

_I was just bony hands as cold as a winter pole.  
_ _You held a warm stone out, new flowing blood to hold._

"Pink Bullets" - The Shins

* * *

"EXPELLED."

There’s ringing in your ears. The envelope drops to the floor, and you vaguely hear Lysander hooting for a treat, but your vision is blurry — save for the jet black squiggles on the letter’s cream colored surface. 

Only that one word is decipherable, bold and steady, a taunt. 

Expelled.

This is it. They’re kicking you out.

You blink, try to breathe, and move your eyes across the writing, as if doing so will make the bad news better.

 _“We regret to inform you…_ ”

Now there’s a rush of anger. _No they goddamn don’t._ You’ve been a thorn in your headmaster’s side since first stepping over Salem’s marvelous marble threshold, and they’re only too happy that you've finally fucked up enough to be let go.

It _was_ a fuck-up; there’s no way around that. You screwed up big this time, _huge,_ and your mom’s going to be absolutely furious. Salem School for Witches is one of the best magical academies in the country, after all. So much for that opportunity.

But you weren’t _trying_ to get expelled…you’d simply stopped caring. You ended your sixth year having done all the required coursework and taken the tests, and you’d recently come of age. Sneaking up to the towers after curfew to get drunk didn’t seem like the Worst Idea in the World at the time…but maybe attempting a fire spell while absolutely wasted was. Many a witch and wizard have died from attempting to create fire out of newspaper and thin air, especially the drunk ones. Widespread, documented cases of that very occurrence. Yep. Swear to god.

Ok, alright, so it’s not the most volatile spell, which only makes your botched attempt all the more fascinating and embarrassing.

A third of Salem’s tower wall was blasted away, which instantly attracted a lot of attention to a very incriminating scene: ten broken bottles of firewhisky, four passed out, slightly singed students (three of whom were boys), a number of less-than-legal items...

And you. Swaying and bewildered, standing over it all, smoke still streaming from the tip of your wand.

You were suspended immediately, long-term action pending. But it’s not pending anymore. 

Expelled. Jesus. What is your mom going to say?

Heaving a sigh—close to tears but too stubborn to admit it—you slump downstairs with the letter in hand. This is going to be a fun conversation.

* * *

Severus Snape isn’t exactly looking forward to the next academic year.

Last term was straining, to say the least. That mess with Black’s escape from Azkaban, not to mention the werewolf’s presence on the grounds...Snape is tired, mentally and emotionally from it all, and summer has flown; suddenly it’s cresting August, and Autumn leaves will soon start to fall. But will the subsequent year be any better, any calmer, any less _frantic?_

Definitely not. No, instead the castle will be teeming not only with the Hogwartsian mass of dunderheads, but with insipid French and hostile Bulgarian dunderheads as well.

Oh yes, and Karkaroff will be there too. Bloody _excellent._

It seems, nowadays, that the harder Snape tries to forget his past and everyone in it, the more often they spring up out of the woodwork to taunt him. And of course, Harry Potter, the most glaring taunt of all, is the catalyst wherever trouble goes. 

Ah, but that brings up the one and only bright side to the Triwizard Tournament being held at Hogwarts this year: at the very least, amidst the hullaballoo these ludicrous games will generate, Potter will not be the center of attention. At the very least, Snape will be able to occupy his thoughts with something other than the dark occurrences surrounding Lily’s son. And perhaps the boy’s incredible ego will take a blow from it. Perhaps he’ll even manage to keep his foolish little nose out of other people’s business.

No, that last is entirely too much to hope for.

The shrill whistle of the teapot shakes Snape from his reverie, and he closes the book he abandoned on his lap, rising from his worn-leather armchair to head for his cramped kitchen. He’s prepared a brew—already sitting in a strainer at the bottom of his teacup—that might help him sleep, recover some of the energy he’s lacking. Pure and simple rest is the strategy this week, now that his lesson plans are complete. Next Monday he’ll be Apparating into Hogsmeade, and if he’s as fatigued then as he’s felt for the entire summer, things might go sour rather quickly.

Snape watches steam drift up from the flow of water he pours into the mug, the vapors of the heated herbs already soothing his overactive head. He raises the cup to his nose, breathing deeply, trying to infuse the concoction with the power running through his fingertips. The world of potion making can be extremely specific, with drastically different results from something as small as stirring clockwise as opposed to widdershins. But he likes the subtleties, and he likes that brewing can be vaguer, more shadowy, improvisational. This base sleeping draught, for example, has simply been thrown together with herbs from his store, and he is eager to discover its effects. What kind of sleep will it be? Dreamless? Vivid? Lucid? Deep?

He tips the cup to his mouth.

A shock of pain streaks through his left forearm, and it startles him so profoundly that he lets go of the mug. The tea crashes to the floor, spraying hot water and soggy herbs all over the shins of his dark slacks. Confused, angry and more than a little worried, Snape rips up his sleeve and stares, hardly believing his eyes.

His Dark Mark. Is he imagining it, or is it darker now than it was a few days ago? Usually, it’s merely a scar, light even against his pale arm. But now...is it a bit more like a bruise?

And the pain...was it simply some kind of nerve spasm, associated so deeply with the Mark that he saw something which wasn’t there? He can’t imagine—can’t even begin to imagine—that the snake was really just wriggling on his arm, moving its head in and out of the eyes of the death’s head. His Mark has been inactive since the Dark Lord’s fall—it never twinges, moves or even _itches._

So what the hell was _that_ about?

If he didn’t imagine it…he doesn’t want to think about the consequences. Does it merit a letter to Dumbledore in any case?

Moving back into his study, tea-less, irritated and thoroughly unnerved, Snape grabs a dark bound notebook from his desk and sinks into a chair. No, the headmaster doesn’t need to hear about it every time he has a pain in his arm, but he thinks he should record the occasion lest it prove to be significant. Just the date, the time, a brief description…

He looks down at his Dark Mark again. He used to like it, back when he first got it—foolish naivety of youth—but needless to say, now it is a stigma. It doesn’t allow you to forget. Snape has considered a particularly strong self-inflicted Obliviate countless times, just to erase memories of the past, but while the tattoo still mars his skin, he knows he will always recall.

_As you deserve. It should haunt you for the rest of your life._

He sits in silence for a long moment, eyebrows deeply furrowed, telling himself everything is alright. It was a nerve pain or the like—if the same thing happened in his right arm, he wouldn’t think twice about it. And the illusion of movement in his Mark was simply caused by shadow, by the rippling of tendons under his skin. There is nothing to be concerned about...

 _“Ah!"_ The sound of his own exclamation surprises him nearly as much as the sudden throb in his arm. He lurches forward in the chair, grasping the base of his elbow, focusing all his attention on the writhing snake, on the powerful—if brief—rush of pain. 

This is _not_ his imagination.

He flies quickly from his seat, upsetting the inkwell balanced on the armrest, and strides to the window to rip aside the curtain there. He furiously searches the dark skies, wondering if the sign will be there, too. But no movement mars the purple-blue of the clouds; no unnatural, magical light has been projected against the atmosphere to announce the presence of the once-proud Death Eaters. Snape lets the drape fall from his thin fingers and presses them against his forehead, eyebrows furrowed. He drops his gaze to his forearm, but the snake doesn’t move again. _What is going on?_

Things like this are not simply happenstance. There _has_ to be a reason…

Snape turns on his heel in a flash, a bolt of insight making him rush to where he discarded his morning _Prophet_ on the side table. _What day is it?_

The front page news tells him what he needs to know. Of course. The Quidditch World Cup was today, the largest multinational collection of witches and wizards for four years. The perfect place to do a bit of terrorizing, ideal for attention loving Death Eaters wishing to inform the world that they are still among them.

Was someone trying to call comrades? If so, the attempt was botched and greatly rushed—sloppy, but surely a sign of one of the Dark Lord’s supporters. Only they can summon each other. 

A deeply ominous feeling comes over him then, one that is becoming more and more frequent over the past months. Dread. Slow, creeping dread.

Sneering despite himself at the smiling faces on the front cover of the _Prophet_ —wondering if there aren’t screaming, terrorized Quidditch fanatics somewhere in Britain—Snape throws the newspaper in the bin. He sits heavily at his desk, reaching for his quill and a long sheet of parchment, and starts to strategize exactly how he will phrase this to Dumbledore.

* * *

“Just like your mum, always leaving things to the last minute.”

You haven’t seen your father in person for five years, yet he still thinks he has the right to act as though you are close. When you stumble off the plane into Heathrow, for instance, he nervously fumbles toward you, this big goofy grin on his narrow face, and enfolds you in his freakishly long arms. 

That isn’t so bad, but then he starts cooing about how much you resemble your mother, how beautiful you are, how proud he is of your academic success thus far (you found a long time ago that school is one of your talents. It comes naturally, if you forget those unfortunate extracurricular mishaps.) Your father takes your talent as _his_ personal strength, as though it reflects his astonishing paternal techniques.

No…now, really, that isn’t quite fair…Most likely, he takes it to mean he’s an extremely gifted, mighty wizard, and he passed on this trait to his only child. The terrible thing is that you can’t entirely discount this. Your mother and relatives on that side are No-Majes, after all. You only have your father to thank for any raw, genetic power.

_Too bad he's never been interested in fostering a relationship with me._

You really have no desire to be here with him at all. You haven't seen him regularly since you were five, staying in Britain when your mom moved you to America, and you stopped missing him long ago. It isn’t your choice to come to England. You’d much rather be home. But your mother was very firm.

“You’re an adult now,” she said harshly when you told her about the expulsion. “So why are you still acting like a child? _And_ you’re a witch! I don’t want to know what could happen if you become a delinquent, much less run around with a wand but no school to keep you grounded. I don’t want to do this to you, [First name], but you need to learn a lesson. I’m sending you to live with your dad.”

At the time it felt like being put on death row. Now, with your dad chattering in your ear, it feels more like twenty-five to life. He hasn’t managed a single visit in over four years, refusing to use No-Maj technology or get on a plane, and you’ve gotten fairly bitter about it.

But he has a point in the “last minute” thing. School starts in only a few days. You’ll barely have enough time to shop for supplies, much less get accustomed to England.

You look over at your dad, who is grinning in a surprisingly endearing way; indeed, he hasn’t stopped smiling since you got off the flight. That was an hour ago, and after a brief lunch in a tiny tavern, you’re walking side by side down a cold, wet—but absolutely charming—lane lined with pubs and bookstores. 

“I wanted to say goodbye to my friends,” is all you can think to say.

Your dad’s smile falters as he looks down at you.

“I’m sorry, love,” he says earnestly. “I know it wasn’t your choice to come here. Though I can’t say I don’t love seeing you.”

“I know,” you mutter, totally at a loss. Your father really is trying; you can see that. But bitterness remains, coating the back of your throat, making your tongue sharper than it should be. You have to keep swallowing jabs at him. Much as you want him to understand your pain over his absence, you don’t want to blatantly hurt him.

“And you’ll like Hogwarts, I think,” your dad continues, scratching the light stubble around his chin. He’s grown out his hair a bit, and it’s easy to see how closely the color and thick strands match yours. “I did. Best seven years of my life, really. If you get into Gryffindor, tell the fat lady hello from me.” His crooked grin tells you you’re supposed to giggle or something. Instead, you shoot him a blank look.

“What’s Gryffindor, some kind of club?”

He chuckles. “No, no. It’s a Hogwarts house…sort of an academic family. Didn’t have those at Salem, did you?”

“No,” you reply sullenly. “It’s too small.”

You arrive at a diminutive pub, shabby and dim-looking, squashed between two taller, more modern buildings on either side—not that London is particularly modern when it comes to architecture. The sign above the pub’s entrance proclaims that it is called the Leaky Cauldron, which seems rather conspicuous for a wizarding establishment on a No-Maj block. It’s probably hidden visually from them.

Your dad steers you toward it as he continues to explain the stupid housing system. You aren’t particularly excited about it. “There are four of them: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin and Ravenclaw.” He pushes open the establishment’s grimy wooden door and ushers you into the dark barroom, lit only by candle and absolutely vacant, save for a hunched old barman polishing bottles. “You’ll probably be sorted into one for the year, so you have a dormitory to sleep in. I don’t know, really; I’m not sure what they do with transfer students.”

You have to subdue some biting remarks about British educational naming conventions. Come to that, what kind of ridiculous name for a school is _Hogwarts?_

There you go, being overly critical again.

“Hallo, Tom!” your father hails the barman—bald, broken smile, thin arms. He raises the glass he’s cleaning in response, eyes darting curiously toward you. Your father wraps an arm around your shoulder, but you don’t lean into it. “This is my daughter, [First name]. She’s spending her seventh year at Hogwarts…kind of an exchange trip.”

Well, at least he makes it sound good. If you put it like that, this whole experience almost seems impressive, like you’re choosing to study abroad as opposed to being expelled from one school and begrudgingly accepted by another. You wave at Tom; his smile gets softer. 

“Didn’t know they did that there,” he replies, his accent different from your dad’s… Cockney? East End? Are those the same? Is that even his accent?

“Special exceptions.” Your dad winks. 

Special exceptions indeed. Your father’s high-paying, respectable job at the British Ministry of Magic has a lot to do with your acceptance; was he not alumni, made generous annual donations and kept on good terms with the headmaster, you probably would not have gotten in.

“We’re just going for her school supplies now…only a few days till commencement, after all!” Your dad claps his hand on your shoulder, and you grimace at the nodding barman, who waves you toward a door in the back. 

You’re not exactly sure what to expect. Your father told you that you’re visiting a wizarding marketplace, all the stores clustered together, forbidden to No-Majes. In America—at least, in the large city you come from—magical shops hide behind mundane facades in plain buildings along the street; you can shop for jeans and get potions ingredients in the same trip. You have a feeling this will be quite the culture shock.

Through the pub’s back door is a tiny courtyard surrounded by high walls, the dead thorns of scarce wild roses strung over the tops, shifting in the breeze. Moss creeps between cracks in the brick. You stand, arms folded across your chest to brace against the cold, as your dad approaches the far partition and taps it with his wand. Slowly, in response to his touch, the bricks begin to slide out of place, gathering themselves in a wonderful little enchantment to form an archway. You raise your eyebrows, impressed by the simple beauty of the ritual, and wait until the new doorway is complete.

Then you get your first look at Diagon Alley.


	2. Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments! They really inspire me to write.
> 
> Next chapter has a LOT more Snape, no worries ;) I'll post it ASAP (probably later today).

* * *

_What follows has led me to this place  
_ _Where I belong with all erased._

"Girl's Not Grey" - AFI

* * *

“Oh _wow...”_

It’s absolutely enchanting, stepping through that archway, gazing in wonder at the beautiful little shop windows with their ornate wooden signs. The old fashioned buildings are trimmed in slate and scarlet. You watch two children race by, their voices raised in exertion and excitement, lobbing balls which explode into puffs of smoke upon impact. A witch down the lane stands by a quaint wooden cart, selling quills and parchment, her shocking green robe managing to look quite ordinary given the setting. It’s a thriving, busy, beautiful world, and you feel for the first time as though you’re exactly where you belong.

“So…what do you need?” Your dad is distractedly digging through his pockets, obviously far less impressed by the alley than you are. His nonchalance has a sobering effect. You keep yourself from acting too swept up in the locale, pretending to be just as indifferent as he is.

“Uh…” You pull the folded parchment list from your back pocket, suddenly feeling very odd in your dark jeans and black cardigan, running a nervous hand down your leg and hoping no one stares. “I need…robes, I guess, first. Black robes as well as dress robes.”

“Ah,” your father says, smiling. “I heard about the reason behind the dress robes. You have a very entertaining year ahead.”

“Why?” You frown. Dress robes don’t sound terribly entertaining.

“The Triwizard Tournament will be held at Hogwarts this year!”

You raise your eyebrows, surprised. Everyone knows what a Triwizard Tournament is, but they haven’t held them in over a century. You spin on your dad, who is just finding his little black satchel of coins, and stare at him, trying to make sure he’s not taking you for a ride.

“Are you serious?”

He runs a hand through his hair and laughs at your skeptical expression.

“Oh yes, quite.”

“Aren’t those things dangerous?” you ask. “Like, kids die in them, right?”

“Oh, with Dumbledore around, I’m sure it’ll all be perfectly safe,” your dad replies. He sighs wistfully. “Wish I could see it...Ah, to be young again.” He winks at you, but you don’t return it. He’s being remarkably blase about this, you think. Your dad’s grin falters. “But run on, run on. I’ve some shopping of my own to do.” He tosses you a sack of galleons. “That should be more than enough. I’m sure you can find your way.”

One thing you’ve always liked about your dad: he’s far from overbearing. You’re glad for the opportunity to be rid of him for a bit and start off down the cobblestone path, your list in one hand, staring around at the buildings on either side.

You come first to a place called Madam Malkin’s, a cute little robe shop across the street from a deliciously fragrant ice cream parlor. The owner turns out to be a squat, dimpled witch in her late forties, who is selling a bright scarlet robe to a tall blond wizard when you come through the door. Once finished with the preceding customer, Madam Malkin makes herself busy with you, asking what you need, your color preferences, whether you prefer a flowing or sleek fit. Unsure, you tell her that Salem’s uniforms are quite different — short green capes, not these billowing black numbers.

Hearing this, Madam Malkin launches into a new flurry of questions, mostly about America, all the time flicking her wand at a long piece of measuring tape which wraps itself around different parts of your body. She then shows you the deep black fabric school robes are made out of, has you choose your favorite type of cloak, and asks you to pick a style and color for your dress robes.

The term “dress robes” is a bit of a misnomer, for women, at least. Most of them are just formal gowns, often with a wizarding edge—a flared sleeve, an elaborate neckline. You find it awfully hard to choose just one you like. In the end, however, you let your gothy sensibilities take over and choose a beautiful black dress with thin double straps, a structured bodice and a full, elegant skirt with a thigh-high slit.

Madam Malkin coos over it for a solid minute before she sweeps it away, gets you dressed once more in your street clothes and ushers you out with a, “Half hour and it will be ready for pick up, dear.”

After that, shopping is relatively easy. Everything on your list is within a one or two block distance, and you can omit buying items required for Salem, things you already have—the cauldron, the telescope, the brass scales. You do stop in Florean Fortescue’s for a delicious honey ice cream and buy a few treats for poor, moody Lysander at the Owl Emporium because he’s feeling terribly down after his horrible plane ride. Before you know it, you’re heading back to the Leaky Cauldron with armfuls of supplies.

You and your father Apparate to his home shortly thereafter, burdened with purchases. You’re starting to feel extremely jet-lagged and irritable, despite the long nap you charmed yourself into on the plane.

Your father notices the increase in tension—he’s been remarkably blasé about your sometimes-snide comments thus far—and ushers you into his wonderfully British home, a large cottage in a tiny wizarding township just outside of London. Therein, you promptly find your room, feed a very grumpy white barn owl his treats and collapse on your bed, asleep before your head hits the pillow.

* * *

“Ah, Miss [Last name], right on time. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Hogwarts.”

With these words, you are ushered into the headmaster’s office, gazing around a little stupidly at the vast and beautiful collection of fine magical instruments. On the walls hang moving portraits of older witches and wizards, possibly old headmasters or teachers; in the corner is a cabinet that emits a faint blue glow you generally associate with a Pensieve; god, the man even has a beautiful red phoenix, perched magnificently atop an elaborate black perch.

With deliberate effort, you return your attention to the old man gazing at you with a smile, his blue eyes twinkling from behind half-moon spectacles. He seems immediately to understand your expression at the sight of his beautiful office—moreover, he seems to like it. 

You like _him_ immediately—you can’t see how anyone wouldn’t. The long, immaculately white beard, the draped blue robes, the charm of his crooked nose…He gives off such a kind, wise energy, and he looks as though he is more than willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.

“Good afternoon, Headmaster,” you reply with a genuine smile. This is already going much better than expected. Your first impression alone of Albus Dumbledore far outweighs any impression you ever had of Headmaster Werner at Salem.

Dumbledore sweeps around beside a little table set up near a window facing a distant Quidditch pitch, waving his wand and conjuring a tray of crumpets and a delicate white teapot.

“Tea?” he asks pleasantly. “Biscuits?”

You accept a cup of tea—you feel it might be rude not to—and go back to hovering awkwardly, silent and unsure. The night before, your father said that you were to attend a meeting with Dumbledore before the start of term, but otherwise gave you no information. You assume the headmaster wants to size you up, make sure he isn’t taking on a delinquent.

But he is very casual, at ease, sipping his tea for a moment before turning the glimmer of his eye back on you. It makes you feel a little more relaxed. You sip your tea, too.

“So, tell me,” he begins, and you brace for a question about the expulsion. What he says, however, surprises you. “Why, upon absconding from Salem, did you choose to come to Hogwarts?”

For a moment, you’re not sure how to respond. Your mouth gapes open like an asinine fish until you realize what you’re doing and close it with a snap.

“I…didn’t, sir,” you explain honestly, sure he knows the real story. This is some kind of test or something. “I was moved here after being expelled from Salem. It was a really stupid mistake.”

“Expelled?” Dumbledore raises his eyebrows, still smiling mildly, not seeming a bit surprised. “Perhaps. But it is not your expulsion that I am interested in. If I am not mistaken—and I am rarely mistaken—it will not be what you are known for as you begin your life in these halls.” He winks at you and sweeps around his desk, the movement in his robes causing a strange golden instrument on it to begin to turn. “I, personally, am a man who truly believes in new beginnings,” Dumbledore says, waving a hand mildly toward the phoenix. You smile. “And I feel, if you are willing to begin again at the beginning, you should at least have the opportunity to do so with a clean slate. And Hogwarts will open its arms to you.”

“I’m quite willing to begin again, sir,” you reply.

“Wonderful.” He claps his hands once, folding his extremely long fingers together—the fingers of a wizard with more than just tricks up his sleeve—and sinks into his chair. “You’ll be sorted in two nights' time, before the commencement feast. I look forward to seeing you again then. But for now, though I know this meeting was indecorously brief, I must bid you adieu. A headmaster’s work is never finished—far from it at this time of year. Though I can’t imagine you’ll have many complaints about leaving my company. You are free to wander the castle or, if you so wish, to return to Hogsmeade for a quick nip and a firewhiskey.” He smiles and his eyes twinkle at your surely eager expression. “Oh yes. I remember the joys of seventeen only too well, Miss [Last name]." 

"Eighteen, sir," you correct.

"Ah. Of course. Eighteen. Go. Enjoy the weekend before the last year of your education begins.” He stands. “Allow me to show you out.” 

And suddenly you are moving toward the door, still a little befuddled by the whole encounter. Dumbledore gently takes the half-full teacup from your hands, pausing when you get to the threshold where his private spiral staircase extended downwards toward the gargoyle statues. 

“Enjoy the rest of your holiday, my dear.”

“You too, sir. Thank you so much.” 

“The pleasure is all mine. Hogwarts has gained itself a worthy student.”

And he waves and you step away and the door clicks softly shut behind you.

That…was completely bizarre.

This place is so different from the sterile marble halls of Salem, where order and seriousness are the edicts of the day—and your are in complete bliss. Dumbledore is so cool! In essence, he’s completely erasing your record, allowing you far more advantage than you ever thought you’d get. It’s freeing, wonderful. 

You are smiling as you step out from the gargoyle’s post, into the grand old castle halls—you love them already; the idea of living in a castle is too much to hope for.

That older woman who escorted you up here is gone, but you’re not sorry for it. She was so stern looking, her hair tied back tightly, those glasses, that pursed mouth. But she, too, was pleasant enough. And apparently unconcerned that you are wandering the castle alone.

Your little exploration doesn’t go long, however. Only ten minutes after you leave Dumbledore, a strikingly ugly old fellow with a narrow chin and scraggly hair shuffles around a corner, and you ask him the way out. You’re a bit peckish—to use your father’s word—and a firewhiskey really does sound good. The man tells you gruffly to follow him. He limps; it makes you feel ill at ease, as though you should help him, but the thought of touching him makes your skin crawl.

So you follow silently, gazing at the majesty of the architecture, noting with shivers of delight the amount of old magic echoing in these halls. The place is, in and of itself, completely enchanted. It’s the most wonderful place you’ve ever been.

You’ve just gotten around to scarcely believing your luck when you are led into the castle’s enormous Entrance Hall, and you take a moment to once again pause at its grand beauty. You passed through here on your way up to the headmaster, but you were so distracted by that older woman—McGinnigan? MacGonnal?—you didn’t really take time to appreciate it.

“So,” you say awkwardly as you and the man start down the grand staircase, “are…you a teacher here?”

He snorts derisively and shakes his head. 

“Caretaker,” he grunts, not even glancing over his shoulder at you. 

“Oh,” you say. You seem to be saying that a lot lately. This place is throwing you many curve-balls.

The grumpy caretaker hobbles quickly over the last yard or two of ground after he descends the staircase, clumsily unlatching the great wooden front doors and pulling one open with a grunt. He presses his back against it, holding it open for you, gesturing out across the threshold in a blatant mockery of chivalry—as evidenced by the contemptuous twist of his mouth. You step outside into blustery fall weather and smile at the sloping lawns, the border of trees an acre or two away, the sparkle of the distant lake. God this place is gorgeous.

“Straight down that path there,” the caretaker says, his tone about as pleasant as he smells. He points a crooked finger at a trail leading toward an opening in the tree line, the same one you remember coming through when you were escorted up the path from the little village, Hogsmeade. “Once you pass the gate, you can Apparate. _Stick to the path_. Wood’s full of dangerous beasties.” The cruel smile he sends your way says he won’t be upset if you meet one of the monsters of the forest—he’s entertained by the very notion.

“Thanks.” You smile at him, just to make him uncomfortable. “Take care!” Stupid goodbye joke—a play on his job description; care-taker, get it?—but it goes completely over his head. Which makes sense--it isn’t a very good joke. He just grunts again and slides inside, the great door slamming behind him.

Pulling your—surprisingly warm—cloak around your shoulders, you start down the path. It doesn’t take you long to reach the high silver gates that mark the border of the Hogwarts grounds, and they swing open at your approach. It takes even less time for you to decide you don’t want to return immediately to your father’s little cottage; he won’t be home for hours, anyway. The meeting with Dumbledore was the epitome of short and sweet; it’s only just now four o’clock. So you keep to the path, walking briskly to stave off the cold, and find yourself fifteen minutes later on the main street of the quaint little Hogsmeade.

You spend a few hours in the shops there, still not used to the charm of blatantly magical establishments which don’t have to hide or mute their enchantments. They’re wonderful, especially Dervish and Banges with its interesting, if needless, assorted magical instruments. And Honeydukes, the fantastic sweet shop where you pick up an irresponsible amount of Chocoballs. 

Before eating yourself into a sugar coma, however, you decide you need something real to eat and a tall glass of red currant rum—you still haven't gotten over the distinct pleasure of being of-age and buying stiff drinks in wizarding bars. There seem to be two pubs in this village, but one of them is a ways up the road, shabby-looking, sketchy. So you head toward the cozy, brightly lit tavern on the well-traveled path, hoping it’ll have decent meat pie.

* * *

Hogwarts never changes.

Snape is always surprised by how stable it is, how secure, despite its many secrets, its creations and uncreations, the thousands of experiences to be had here. But the character of Hogwarts is ageless —home to all who cross its threshold.

Snape feels it, as everybody does. It would be a lie to say he doesn’t. Surely, these halls are speckled with bitter memories, but it was his paradise for years, the place he felt most understood and at ease. The Slytherin dormitories will always be familiar to him, almost like a comfort, where he laughed and talked and slumbered with his kind; the classrooms where he hadn’t simply learned to do magic but learned to _be_ a wizard; the dungeons where he hunched for long hours over a simmering cauldron, content in the fumes and the heat. And the grounds…those are riddled with fond, sad memories of a broken romance. Times he walked with her by the lake. Times he nearly kissed her. The time she left him.

The best of times and the worst of times. The most triumphant and the most bitter. What else constitutes home?

And now he returns again, at the age of thirty four, to haunt the dungeons where he played as a child—a tall, ominous, generally disliked figure in black. He sweeps around during the school year, scowling, his pale face framed by bone-straight black hair. He is alone and certainly not popular among his students, save perhaps for the Slytherins he shows special favor. He’s under no delusions as to how the little cretins think of him, but it isn’t much of a bother. If he wanted students to like him, he’d shower them with candy.

Snape is a man who’s always preferred a lack of companionship to whimsical, empty headed chatter; this makes living with a dozen other scholarly teachers, none of whom like him particularly, relatively easy. But it hasn’t been since…

Well…it’s been a long time since he’s connected with anyone. He feels that, apart from Dumbledore, the only people who really know him are either imprisoned or dead. It isn’t _lonely,_ per se; he’d never describe himself as lonely. It just gets dreadfully boring sometimes.

He’s spent the last several days holed up in the dungeons, as per his usual start-of-term routine. Poring over papers in his office, brewing potions, organizing books, making last-minute tweaks to his lesson plans and trying to avoid other living souls. His fatigue hasn’t subsided—the Dark Mark scare only left him more strained than he was previously—and resting is easier when people aren’t attempting to carry on conversation.

Only it isn’t working.

Snape simply can not sleep.

He’s tried—oh has he. Usually, collapsing into the four-poster in the little room connected to his office has him dreaming deeply at once, so familiar is the sensation. But he finds himself up and wandering the halls at ungodly hours, eyes wide, the circles underneath getting darker and darker. He’s tried tonics, teas and potions, but he always wakes feeling no more rested than the night before. Sleep, when he has it, is shallow and light. Short of Draught of the Living Dead, nothing is working. He needs real, healthy, natural sleep.

Drastic measures have to be taken, or he’ll slit his own wrists just to get a bit of shut eye. And suicide doesn’t sound like the most productive option. He needs to fall into bed, head fuzzy, mind at rest, so tired he forgets his own insomnia. He needs a deep, deep sleep.

And so it is that Snape, quite untrue to form, decides to go into Hogsmeade for a drink.


	3. More Destructive Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know this first...interaction may seem a little abrupt in a story that promises to be slow burn (ish)...but trust me, this is not the beginning of your happily ever after. It’s simply the catalyst for the drama in the rest of this story.
> 
> I hope you like it! Tell me what you think please <3

* * *

_Black lipstick stains her glass of red wine.  
_ _I am your servant, may I light your cigarette?  
_ _Those lips smooth, yeah, I can feel what you're saying, praying._

"Love You to Death" - Type O Negative

* * *

_That damnable girl has been here for the last hour._

He doesn’t notice you arrive, but when next he looks up from his deep glass of firewhiskey, you’re sitting across the bar, eyes cast toward him with a look of dubious curiosity. Those eyes dart away as soon as he sees them, but not before he catches their brilliant flash of color.

Granted, his mind is foggy with alcohol—he’s lost track of drinks slid his way since walking in here two hours ago—but for some reason your very presence _bothers_ him. He doesn’t recognize you, which is odd in and of itself; before the start of term the Three Broomsticks is usually full of familiar faces. And then there’s the way you’re looking at him. How long did you stare with that inquisitive expression on your face, that slight crease between your brows? How long did you wonder what an ugly old bastard like him is doing alone at a bar?

You are a lovely thing. Of course you are; that makes the taunt even worse. And young, at that juncture when girl becomes woman. Drunk as he is, Snape can’t keep the unbidden thought from crossing his mind that you are very appealing. And alone. _What is she doing alone?_

But that look on your face…He can scarcely read it, but it isn’t pleasant. 

At first, your eyes are narrowed just enough to look almond-shaped, and your hair catches the red light of the fire in the corner, giving the swift and vague illusion of someone Snape is too eager to see again. But now he has a second glance and sees you are nothing like Lily — thick, tousled hair. Creamy, perfect skin. And your eyes are larger than Lily's, wider, and your lips are fuller. 

He hates thinking of Lily. When coming up with this plan, he ignored how melancholy and pensive drinks can make you. This isn’t good.

Snape rubs his eyes and forehead, elbows settled solidly on the bar top, and Madam Rosmerta asks him if he wants a refill, which he gladly accepts. After you drink past the brooding, everything goes numb. Or gets hilarious. Or, most favorably, you pass out. Any of them is a better alternative to this.

 _That damnable girl keeps glancing at me._

What do you want? You’re not admiring him, of that much he is certain. But the interest, the deep probing look he is receiving... _What?!_ he wants to say, wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake out the thoughts from that little head. _Scarcely more than a child…_ What right do you have to look at him like that?

Getting frustrated, Snape grips his glass with both hands and stares hard at the rough-hewn countertop for a moment, tracing a grain of wood diligently with his eye. Then, slowly releasing a deep breath, trying to breathe out the rising anger, his gaze darts up to meet yours. Surprise. You hold his stare.

You smile at him. You _smile_ at him, as though you’re merely being kind, and you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. Then you look away, and he watches a pink tint rise up your neck, flame onto your cheeks.

_Blushing?_

And not only blushing, at that. You bite your lip and twirl a piece of hair around your finger as well, eyes flicking back to him with a small, sweet smile. Then, forwardly and entirely too appealingly, you slide a finger along your lower lip, casually, as though you are simply wiping beverage from it. But your real intention is transparent: to bring an unnecessary amount of attention to how full it is. Looking at him from lidded eyes, you mouth, _“Hi.”_

Now it’s Snape's turn to look away, more confused and annoyed than he’s been in a long time. Who knew visiting a tavern would result in actually being noticed by a woman far too young and pretty for him? It’s disconcerting, rather irritating, because it’s so unprecedented.

_You’re upset she finds you attractive?_

Do you? The flirtatious gestures aside, there’s nothing concrete here. And he’ll never approach you, won’t even consider it. He’s not that drunk. He hasn’t been _that_ drunk in years. 

You are merely taunting him. _That_ is what makes him angry.

He wants you to stop, so he can be alone again with his thoughts. It’s too distracting, too uncomfortable.

He thinks he should like to take a walk, watch the stars for a while, sip from the flask he has with him. Reaching into his robes, he deposits a handful of coins on the counter and stands, draining the rest of his glass. Then, not giving you another look, he leaves.

* * *

Maybe you’re losing your touch. 

It’s rather disappointing. You want to meet the man at the bar across from you; he looks interesting, attractive in an older, unsmiling, mysterious way. You like his eyes immediately, profoundly black and so full of depth; you have a feeling a conversation with him would be fascinating. 

Alright, honestly you see his body first, right upon walking in. His back is to the door, and you’re instantly attracted to the long, lean frame, to the narrow hips and shoulders roped with stringy muscle under a tight black shirt and vest.

So you choose a spot across the bar from him and watch his pale face, the way he stares at the counter, so lost in his own head it makes you want to unravel him. He’s handsome in a nonconventional way—high, prominent cheekbones, elegant eyes, and a distinctive nose, largish but not unappealing. You’ve always preferred interesting-attractive, as opposed to classically, strictly, socially handsome…and you tend to like older men.

So where better than a bar to meet someone? If you immediately get a boyfriend here, it’ll help those sudden, sharp stabs of separation anxiety from America; you hate those feelings.

But the man doesn’t take the bait. You’ve thrown out the sexy leg-cross, the hair twirl, the lip bite…Everything a dozen times. Have you lost your appeal?

Or maybe this guy is married? But if so, why would he sit here alone? He doesn’t wear a ring. He glances at you every so often, eyes lingering, face hard and unreadable. Maybe it’s time to quit...

But then, suddenly, his head snaps up and he meets your gaze, eyes burning. For a swift, startling moment, he looks furious, absolutely furious—then deeply fascinated. He can’t figure you out, and it makes you a little sad. It isn’t that he’s uninterested; he just doesn’t understand why you want his attention.

Time to make it about as clear as you can. You touch your lower lip and mouth, _“Hi.”_

He looks away instantly, eyebrows furrowed, expression torn between angry and baffled. Damn. No dice. 

“Come on, man,” you mutter, feeling a sneer curl your lip. You don’t like rejection—who does? Here you are, hitting on this old, lonely, self-conscious man, probably offering him the freshest, sexiest thing he’s met in a century, and he’s being rude about it! Won’t even meet your eye again. Screw him, then.

He storms out a moment later, huffy, the asshole. You cross your arms, allowing yourself to pout about it a little. That didn’t go very well at all.

The woman behind the bar gives you a very funny look, like you have something weird tattooed on your forehead. You sigh and drain your rum. This is as good a time to leave as any. 

The cool air feels remarkable upon your face and neck, and your head buzzes pleasantly both from it and the alcohol you’ve consumed. You stand in the doorway to the Three Broomsticks for a moment, swaying slightly, trying to decide what to do with yourself. You’re far too tipsy to Apparate safely; being impaired and teleportation don’t really go hand in hand. Good way to get splinched.

So you wander about for a while, watching the stars, thinking about the dark haired man and the way his cloak billowed after him as he left the pub. Deciding to be safe, you pop inside the Three Broomsticks and rent a room for the night, just in case. You then continue your nighttime stroll.

* * *

He should simply go back to Hogwarts—he doesn’t know it yet, but it would prevent a lot of trouble. However, Snape’s feet take him directly down the path toward the Shrieking Shack, all the way around the house, and back toward Hogsmeade before the thought of bed even crosses his mind. It’s been perhaps an hour since leaving the pub, and he’s ready for another real pint, having nearly finished off the contents of his flask. He’s significantly drunker than he was upon leaving the tavern, though not quite drunk enough to make the world fade into dreams. Swaying and gulping down the last of his rum, he crosses back into the little village and again makes his way toward the lights of the Three Broomsticks. 

The soft candlelight glinting off your damnable hair catches his attention first, though his eyes are swiftly drawn to the way your cloak sweeps off your shoulders to expose a beautiful young body. You stand a few yards from the inn’s entrance, staring up at the stars and swaying on the spot.

The idea comes, unbidden, of what it might be like to crush his mouth against yours, to hold you against him, to run his hands across your skin…

He approaches you without thinking through his intentions but knowing exactly what he wants. You meet his gaze with curious eyes and a small smile, and he places himself in front of you, standing tall, feeling impressive. Any inhibitions he might have had are wonderfully absent. Snape can’t remember the last time he felt so attractive, especially as your eyes sweep up and down his long, lean form and your smile widens.

What is he doing, exactly? He never picks up strangers in bars. What does one say to a beautiful girl?

“I was rude,” is all he comes up with. _Smooth. She’ll be falling into your arms in no time._ He attempts to rectify. “In the bar. I…regret not having spoken with you.”

“You’re speaking with me now,” you reply. American. Gods, American and gorgeous. The details of your face are breathtaking—the thickness of your lashes, the moist color of your plump lips, the tiny mole on your left cheek. 

“I decided I couldn’t miss the opportunity.” There’s a beat as you smile and look bashfully to the ground. 

Before he has any idea what is happening, Snape finds his long white fingers gently brushing your face, brushing that little beauty mark. Surprisingly, you lean into his touch, warm and swaying. Both of you are swaying. Or perhaps the world is simply tilting around you.

He chances a glance down and decides he can’t think of a more wonderful place to lay his head that night than your magnificent cleavage. His hand slides down your neck, the tip of his finger tracing your jugular, over your collarbone and down to the soft swell of your right breast. He’s so distracted by the way your warm flesh responds with goosebumps, it takes him a moment to recognize that you’re talking.

“So I’m really drunk,” you’re saying. “Are you around that state?”

“I’m in precisely that state,” he slurs, meaning it. A small smirk crosses your lips, and he smirks back when he sees it. Then _(this damnable girl)_ you press against him, your firm body and soft breasts rushing the blood from his head. Your knee goes between his legs, your arms around his neck, and he finds his hands stroking your back now, and lower.

“I don’t usually move so fast,” you whisper into his ear, your soft breath racing a shiver through his entire body. He feels himself respond to your touch, his hips pressing eagerly into you. It’s been a dreadfully long time.

“I don’t usually move at all,” he says, and even though it doesn’t quite make sense, you understand. You giggle.

“I find that hard to believe,” you reply. “You’re dead sexy. What’s your name?” A shiver of pleasure races through him at your compliment.

“Severus,” he says. “Yours?”

“[First name].”

“[First name]...” He tastes your name in his mouth and wonders briefly who you are and why you’re here. But as your soft tongue touches his earlobe and he feels your supple skin under his hands, he decides he doesn’t care.

* * *

You sneak around back to your room in the inn, avoiding all eyes and laughing together like horny teenagers. Which, in your case, is pretty much true.

This man is amazing. He stops you in the cold to push you firmly against the building and kiss you there, breathless and hot. Heat. That’s the word. Fire in his every action—his firm fingers sliding along your hips, his fervid tongue exploring your mouth, the hard press of him through his trousers. He pins your arms dominantly above your head with one hand while the other moves beneath your skirt, until you’re nearly crying out and he’s watching your face flush in pleasure.

His fingers are clever, long and white, and you suck one into your mouth as soon as you stumble into the warmth of your room. The noises he makes are incredibly sexy, all testosterone and desire, and he watches you intently with those incisive black eyes, a crease between his brows. He groans as your wet lips pop over his knuckle, as your tongue caresses his fingertip. He's otherwise quite stoic and silent, so these reactions are extremely gratifying.

Then he pulls you close, his breath heavy in your ear, and his fingers move to your shirt, sliding beneath, hands spread fully along your abdomen. You’re topless in a matter of seconds, and the man pushes you down on the bed to look at you.

When he kneels down over you and you grind yourself against him, his eyebrows furrow a little, like he's irritated by his own desire. But in another second he's greedily filling his hands with you, and his mouth comes next, tongue sweeping over your nipple. His hands dip between your thighs, sliding under a layer of lace, clever and skilled and peculiarly detail-oriented. He works up a rhythm with his licking and caressing, so that before he’s even removed his jacket, you’ve experienced earth-shattering pleasure and are laying on the bed in only underwear, trying to catch your breath. 

He hovers silently over you, watching you intently as the wave of post-orgasmic warmth breaks. You sigh contentedly and meet his black eyes, fully intending to tell him how amazing that was. But he beats you to it.

“Good girl,” he says, a little breathless, and you raise your eyebrows at the authority in his tone—though you can’t deny it turns you on. You almost shoot back a sarcastic _Thank you, daddy,_ but you bite your tongue.

All the same, the man smirks, as if he can hear your thoughts. Then he takes your hands and places them over your head.

“You’re a beautiful creature, aren’t you,” he muses lowly, almost to himself, his eyes on your body.

“Severus…” you whisper, and his gaze flicks up to your face, eyes narrowing wickedly. Both of you know it means ‘more, please.’ 

* * *

He still has it, by gods. It’s been years, but he still has it. Truthfully, Snape is a bit anxious about the main event, simply because of the length of time between this and his last. So he’s determined to give you as much pleasure as he can. Off to a good start, all things considered.

But after he pushes you to your knees and you undress him, there’s a horrifying moment when he isn’t sure if there will be a main event at all. He has to back away, breathing heavily, and try to explain in slurs and between the pounding of his blood that your mouth feels too good. 

So he decides to use his mouth on you. You taste as sweet as raspberries, and the moans coming from you would make any decent human blush. You have a savage streak, he thinks, something unbound and feral, something fascinating in the arch of your body and the fire of your eyes. He wasn’t lying when he called you beautiful, or a creature. There’s something wild in you.

When he pulls you on top of him as he lays on the bed, you straddle his skinny hips and Snape wonders momentarily where his shirt has gone to. He makes an involuntary movement to cover his Dark Mark with the bedclothes, not wanting to see the look of horror he knows will come, but you’re paying very little attention to his forearms. Your face is nuzzled in the crook of his neck, your tongue doing wicked things. But would you still do them, if you knew the things he's done? You seem to like a bit of danger, but _real_ danger isn't as sexy as people think it is.

Then your lips and tongue and fingertips burn away that thought, and all the rest of them, until he’s bucking at you in desperation, pulling your hair and growling your name. He makes up his mind to just toss you onto your knees and take you from behind, when you finally lower onto him, and he lets out a deep groan of pleasure. 

You start to rock, to ride, one hand grasping your breast, the other firm on his chest. Snape groans, unable to have any thoughts besides you, you, _you_ …your tight, supple warmth…the way your breasts sway…the flushed red of your cheeks…the lust and pleasure in your eyes as they gaze straight into his face…gods gods _gods…_

He hears you cry out his name and clench, whimpering as you ride and come simultaneously. He’s thirty seconds behind, his pleasure explosive and overwhelming. Gods, he sees _stars,_ and when his vision clears a bit, there are still white bursts at the corners of his eyes.

Gasping and sweaty, you collapse onto him, and he goes limp against you. He strokes the soft skin of your arm as your breathing goes deep and steady. Snape can’t remember the last time he felt so good, so satisfied, so…tired. So tired… 

His finger hovers in the air, poised before one last sweep against your arm. But it never completes its movement. Instead, it goes limp and drops to the soft bed, useless and heavy now. With your wonderful weight against him, Snape closes his eyes and sleeps like a baby.


	4. An Inconvenient Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooo thanks for the reviews! GIVE ME MORE.
> 
> I love you all.

* * *

_My man's got a heart like a rock cast in the sea._

"About Her" - Malcolm McLaren

* * *

When you wake up the following morning, your bed is empty. The stranger’s belongings are gone, and you allow yourself a swell of disappointment at the lack of romance. You hope, melancholy, that last night was as amazing for him as it was for you.

Then you see the note on the bedside table, laid gently alongside a primrose picked from the flowering vines around the window. Smiling, you pick it up and read:

_I apologize for leaving so early, but I couldn’t bear to wake you. Thank you for last night. Perhaps we can arrange to meet again, if you linger in Hogsmeade._

_Send any correspondence to the castle, if you wish._

_Severus Snape_

* * *

Snape stares at the calendar on the wall, at the date circled in red. The time has come. Tomorrow is commencement.

His first year of teaching aside—Merlin, was that really a decade ago?—Snape is never particularly enthusiastic about the start of term. But he’s never had quite this strong a feeling of utter dread about it all, either; he’s not sure what’s coming, but he’s relatively positive it will be difficult.

The professors gather for a staff meeting with the headmaster to discuss the coming presence of the two guest schools in the castle. Snape arrives, hungover but wonderfully rested, expecting to have to greet Moody as well—the new Defence teacher. Mercifully, however, the old, irritating, paranoid wizard has not yet arrived; that makes things easier. Moody tends to dislike former supporters of the Dark Lord, and he’s far from trusting. With him taking over the very position Snape desires (and would be damn good at!) he has a feeling they’ll barely manage to be civil to each other.

Dumbledore also announces a transfer student from the Salem School for Witches. The whole scenario confuses Snape, as this sort of thing is not usually heard of. It’s possible, of course—wizarding education has long been standardized, regardless of country—but he’s never seen it happen in all his time at Hogwarts. As usual, however, the headmaster is casual and enigmatic about the circumstances; he simply tells them Miss [Last name] will be sorted into a house prior to the feast in an empty classroom or office. And of course, the heads of houses are expected to be there for that, too, on the off chance she is put under their charge. Snape sneers at the thought of another snotty little thirteen or fourteen year old. How any of them will find time for a mini sorting ceremony is beyond Snape, but he supposes they’ll just have to rush everything, as they do every year.

“Is she arriving on the train with the other students?” Flitwick’s voice is shakier than usual; apparently he’s had exactly the same thought as Snape. If you arrive when everyone else does, the first years’ sorting will have to be delayed. Things like that tend to confuse and bog up the night for all of the administrators; he doesn’t see how he could look forward to it less.

“No,” Dumbledore replies, and a wave of relief washes over everyone in the group. “She’s coming up the path from Hogsmeade at five o’clock tomorrow. Which reminds me—would anyone be kind enough to escort her from the gate?”

Snape avoids eye contact, scowling at the floor, the pounding in his head reaching a sudden peak. He wishes he was invisible, if only so Dumbledore wouldn’t see how much he does not want to escort anyone anywhere. After a moment, he hears Minerva’s resigned sigh, and she offers to be the chaperon.

“Thank you,” Dumbledore says graciously. “I assure you all, there’s nothing to worry about in her regard. She’s a bright girl, and very respectful. She’ll blend in quite effortlessly.”

His words put Snape’s mind at ease. He puts the new student from his thoughts immediately, focusing instead on the castle’s preparations before returning to his chambers to sleep off the rest of his hangover. 

He finds his mind wandering to the girl last night—to your hair that smells of raspberries, your taught, supple body stretching above him, the plaintive moans that trembled from your lips. You were his first time in a long time and, gods, is he wrong to think it was explosive? Not only had he left thoroughly satisfied, but you were satisfied, too. It increases his ego tremendously, that he still has a way of making women moan. 

He regrets not asking how to contact you in the future. Unless you choose to do so, he’s only left with your warmth, the smell of raspberries, and your name. It’s a name that runs through his aching head until unconsciousness overcomes him.

On September first, he wakes up feeling far more rested than he’s been for the entire summer prior. A good shag has apparently done him wonders. But he’s no more optimistic as to the school year ahead, nor is he looking forward to the tedious events of the day.

And your face is still behind his eyes whenever he closes them, looking up at him with wide eyes or with your mouth open in pleasure. He pinches the bridge of his nose, glances momentarily in the mirror and heads up to the Great Hall.

* * *

You arrive at the Hogwarts gate shortly before five on the evening of commencement. It’s raining, and you cast a little weatherproofing spell on the hood of your cloak, bouncing up and down on your heels as you wait.

You spent last night at your father’s house and had a pretty good time, all things considered. He didn’t ask many questions about where you were last night, as your mother would, and he shared a big fifth of fire whiskey with you to help combat the hangover. “Scale of the dragon that burned you, we used to say,” he told you, rollicking drunk and flushed with laughter. You’re startled to find you’ll miss him while you’re at Hogwarts. You made him promise to write, and he beamed, tears welling in his eyes as he told you how happy he was to finally reunite with you.

You hugged goodbye after Apparating into Hogsmeade, and again your father’s eyes were misty. You felt a little teary too.

The stern older woman you met the first time you toured Hogwarts approaches the gate, and she tells you yet again, without being prompted, that her name is Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor house. You ask if she remembers your dad, and McGonagall lightens up a bit, reminiscing about how clever he was in Transfiguration and saying pointedly that she hopes his daughter will follow suit. You don’t have the heart to tell her that Potions is your best subject.

McGonagall leads you through the castle’s Entrance Hall, then through a series of narrow hallways branching away from where she says the Great Hall is located, where the students eat. Stopping outside a wooden door beside two glowing torches and a statue of an old wizard with a frog on his head, she looks you up and down. Then she proceeds to reach out and straighten your school tie, push your damp hair back from your face, and flick away a few pine needles from your cloak.

“I suppose you'll do,” she says, the hint of a smile in her eyes. “Remember that first impressions are important, lass. You're going to meet the other heads of houses in there, and I expect you to make them clamor for you and then continue to sing your praises throughout the year. The headmaster may be lenient, but rest assured I will keep both eyes on you. Troublemakers only go so far here at Hogwarts.”

It’s the “be careful” speech you’ve been expecting, so it doesn't really sting. You just smile reassuringly and nod respectfully. Like you’ll do anything to jeopardize your chances here…

“I'll do my best to make you all proud, I promise,” you say. “It's the least I can do for being given a second chance. I won't waste it.”

McGonagall regards you, eyebrows raised.

“Well said,” she replies with a curt nod. “See that you don't.”

And with that, she opens the door and ushers you inside a tiny chamber, flickering in candlelight, where four other adults are already waiting. In the center of the chamber is a stool, a very weathered old hat sitting atop it.

But your eyes are drawn instantly to a familiar face here, one you’ve only seen once and hoped to see again. But not like this. Oh Jesus, god, no, not like this.

You have to stop yourself from reacting and do so by clutching at your skirt. But you cannot rip your gaze from that handsome, pale face, with those incisive dark eyes. Holy shit. 

Severus.

He looks absolutely furious.

* * *

When you first walk into the room, Snape goes through a horrible moment of utter disorientation. _Why is_ she _here?_ he asks himself, even as comprehension dawns and a cold wave of horror washes down his spine. 

It can’t be. No. Gods, let it be anyone else...

“This is [First name] [Last name]” Dumbledore announces, and Snape flinches as all hope is drained away. “She will be completing her seventh year, and her magical education, here at Hogwarts. I trust you will all welcome her with open arms.” 

Guilt pools in Snape’s gut. He’d certainly done that. 

How stupid he’d been—how irrational and lust-driven. Like a teenaged boy. His actions now seem vile, and so out of his usual character it’s nearly laughable. Or it would be, were the situation anywhere near _funny._

It’s a sign from the universe, piled on the rest in the course of his wretched existence, that trying to find happiness only leads to pain. Snape is meant to be miserable. He is built for self-loathing and emptiness. He’s good at it. Two nights ago he forgot that, and now he is being punished.

_And that damnable girl is staring at me._

“[First name],” Dumbledore addresses you softly, “I’m honored to introduce the four heads of Hogwarts houses. Minerva McGonagall, head of Gryffindor, you already know.” He motions to Minerva, who nods stiffly but softens her thin mouth with a smile. You tear your eyes from Snape and nod back. “Pomona Sprout, head of Hufflepuff.” Pomona waves cheerfully. “Filius Flitwick, head of Ravenclaw.” Filius bows deeply. “And Severus Snape, head of Slytherin.” 

Snape knows he should do something, show some sign of greeting, but it takes all the strength he can muster not to scream at you. _You should have told me, girl! You should have warned me! Had I known…a student...I never would have..._

Instead he stands there with his hands clenched into fists, meeting your eyes when you turn back to him. Here, now, in the light of fire and sobriety and horrible truth, what must you think of him? A silent, sallow, ugly Potions Master with no energy for the situation he is in.

Now, would it be better to speak with you in private, to clear the air and lay down boundaries? Or should he simply ignore it until you move on and sleep with someone else? The pounding in his skull demands that he simply forget that night ever happened. But he can’t, he knows. And you certainly haven’t.

The sorting goes quickly, blurred by his thoughts and nausea. He watches your slender back as you sit on the stool, watches the filthy hat cover your hair, watches the tension in your shoulders.

He feels an electric jolt when the hat shouts, “Slytherin!” after only a moment. A cold trickle crawls down his spine, horror and the slightest tinge of unwanted excitement. 

This is bad. This is _terrible._ You’ll be so close. Had you been sorted into another house, and assuming you do not interest herself with Potions, he might have been able to ignore you until the year is out. It’s a large school, and he doesn’t make a habit of needless socializing. But a student in his own house, especially an exchange student in need of advising...The possibility that you will not have to work together is nonexistent.

Perhaps he should tell Dumbledore. He might understand. But where would that leave you? And where would it leave Snape—his pride, his career...No. That is not an option. The only thing to do is to set down firm boundaries, and quickly. 

And he can’t get distracted by your eyes, or your smell of raspberries, or the memory of your slender throat above him. 

_Stop that._

The headmaster is turned toward him expectantly, one hand on your shoulder. Of course. Who is to show you to the dormitories, if not him? He nods at Dumbledore as though he heard his request and sweeps out the door, with you right on his heels.

* * *

You have never, in your life, been this utterly horrified. 

Christ, the things you get yourself into! You’re so angry with yourself, you could scream. _A professor?!_ Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ! What are you going to do? How can you ever meet his eye? How can you sit in whatever class he teaches and not go red and silent?

He doesn’t say a word as you navigate the long castle corridors, but you get a look at his face. Tight, drawn, pale. So different to its composure the other night, relaxed and even smiling. A strong image of the way his eyebrows furrow in pleasure is sticking in your mind. _You_ did that to him, this man now cold and distant. In fact, he looks like he’s seething. And you suppose you can’t blame him. You’ve certainly never been more embarrassed.

What to do? The silence is growing awkward as the walk lengthens. This thing between you, this elephant in the room of attraction and secrets, can’t just be suppressed. You don’t work that way. But it doesn’t seem like your new head of house is going to bring it up.

Severus Snape stops abruptly before a black iron door in a niche in the stone wall. So deep in your thoughts, you neglected to pay attention to your route, but it seems like you’ve descended many flights of stairs. The black robed man opens the door quickly, reaches back and none too gently places his hand on the small of your back to push you inside. The touch feels electric, even through your shirt. 

You stumble as you go, into a cramped room overflowing with books and candles, one large desk facing you from the back wall. Ink pots and quills are strewn across its surface, weaving around piles of parchment, potion vials, and a cauldron or two.

Severus stops just inside the door to close and latch it. Your breath catches in your throat as you turn to face him. Where are you and what is he planning? 

You watch him for a long moment—onyx eyes, full of irritation. A white face above a long black-clothed body. Black hair falling carelessly to his shoulders. Long fingered hands—oh, you remember those. Fascinating features. An odd but undeniable attractiveness. It’s annoying how much you still want him, how fresh in your mind the things he can do to you are. He can still do them to you if he wants to. 

But now, of course, he doesn’t.

Severus’s fingers are pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes fixed on the ground in the corner. He works his jaw, evidently trying to think of something to say. Good luck. You have no fucking clue what words to choose.

“I assume it is obvious,” he says finally, the silky cant of his accent sending shivers up your spine, “that we will not progress in the fashion in which we...began.” You can only nod. It feels as though you’ve swallowed a rock.


	5. Shared Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. Listen to me.
> 
> I love you very much.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3

* * *

_And our love is a ghost that the others can't see.  
_ _It's a danger.  
_ _Every shade of us you fade down to keep  
_ _Them in the dark on who we are.  
_ _Gonna be the death of me._

"Familiar" - Agnes Obel

* * *

Severus sweeps around to sit at his desk, staring up at you for a few moments with silent anger. Why is _he_ so pissed at _you?_ It was a mutual fucking decision! You start to get defensive, which often happens when you feel you’re being wrongfully reprimanded, and a huge factor as to why you had so many faculty enemies at Salem. You may have a _bit_ of a problem with authority.

The longer Severus stares, the more irritated you become.

“Take a picture,” you snap finally, planting a hand on your hip. You want to see shock on his face, the part that’s worth all the trouble you’re causing, the surprise and indignation so satisfying in a teacher. But in that sense, he is not satisfying. He keeps his pride and look of blank irritation.

“What, exactly, were you thinking?” Severus asks. Your eyebrows shoot up. What the hell is that supposed to mean? He leans toward you. “You are scarcely more than a child. Apart from the nature of your recklessness, now I am involved. Did you simply not think to warn me, or weren’t you thinking at all?” 

You end up being the shocked one. He’s laying all the blame on _you?_

 _“Warn_ you?" you ask. “I’m sorry, between the drinks and the making out, I must have fucking _forgot."_

Severus stands abruptly at your curse. “You will watch. Your. _Tongue,"_ he snaps.

“And you _won’t_ blame me for this!” you snap back. “You could’ve told me you were a teacher. That would have stopped me pretty quick.”

“As the student with a habit of seducing older men, would it not --”

 _"Me_ seduce _you?"_ You bark a laugh and lower the pitch of your voice to speak in a terrible British accent, “‘I apologize for my previous behavior. I regretted not meeting you. Here, let me stroke your face’.”

“[First name].”

“Severus.”

 _"Professor Snape,"_ Severus hisses, a hint of desperation in his tone. He looks a little wild. He has no idea how to deal with this, you realize. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before, and while the whole experience is new to you, too, he’s the one in real danger of losing a job and reputation. But you’re trying to rebuild a life here! Your reputation won’t exactly be stellar if this leaks.

You take a deep breath, feeling tears prick the corners of your eyes. In five seconds back in that little sorting chamber, everything went so wrong. You felt something when you were with him the other night, some connection you can’t fake. This might have worked; maybe he would have been right for you. 

Now your hopes are dashed. You feel like you’re losing the chance at something amazing. All because of your respective jobs.

“Right,” you say, backing down, deflated by disappointment. Severus—no, _Professor Snape—_ can’t conceal his surprise at your change of tone. You turn away from him, not him wanting to see how sad this is making you. You were only a lay to him, you realize. He didn’t expect you to come back to haunt him. “Right, of course. Professor Snape. Of course it can’t be Severus.”

Snape’s voice is cold when it cuts through the stillness after a moment.

“No,” he agrees. “It can’t.” He hesitates a moment, but when he begins to speak again his voice is deeper than before, more authoritative as he gathers himself. “Clearly, I made a mistake that night. We both did. I believe it would be easiest for us if we forget anything happened. To erase it from our memories.” 

With that, he slowly draws his wand, holding it between long fingers.

That hurts. That hurts a lot. It feels like a blow to the gut. You turn back to face him. His expression is hard, unreadable, and does not soften at the pain in your eyes. You’re still intensely attracted to him. It’s hard not to be.

“I don’t know what you’re suggesting, _sir,"_ you reply, trying to keep your voice from shaking, “but I will _not_ Obliviate myself out of this.” 

You pause, waiting for him to retaliate, but he’s hearing you out. _At least he’s not treating me like a child._

“Listen, I may be a student, but we’re both adults here.” He visibly relaxes at this, and you realize he hadn’t known that you are, in fact, of age. It’s almost funny. “Yes. I'm eighteen, in case you wondered. So us having...What we did was legal. Not ethical, maybe, but legal. We did what we did, and we have to deal with that. Not run from it. I don’t run from things. But what I can do is keep one hell of a secret, and I promise that from now on, I will only regard you as my teacher...sir.” Snape stares at you for a long time.

* * *

_This damnable girl is bold._ He’ll give you that. If he had to guess, he'd say that you probably would have fared well in Gryffindor. Then again, you seem to know what you want, and you’ll fight to get it. Hence a Slytherin at heart. Perhaps you really are as good as you say at the art of subterfuge.

To say that Snape has serious misgivings with your plan, however, is putting it mildly. But he won’t stoop to Obliviating you without your consent. The very idea feels more slimy than what he did to you the other night. Nor can he stand the thought of charming himself to forget something you are aware of. Of course, the fact that you are of age is something of a comfort, but it’s hardly the point. The fact that you are a student—gods, how could he? A _student—_ is far more pressing.

“You are certain you can do this?” he demands. He feels shaky, but he’s trying not to show it. Just as he is trying not to see how beautiful you are in the candle light. He’s beginning to hate you for it. _A child, a child, merely a child._

But memories of the other night contradict that in the most profound sense.

You scoff, attempting to pick up the pieces of your pride. “It was only one night,” you say. “I barely know you. Of course I can do this. Can you?” The grin you throw him is irritatingly flirtatious, and it deepens his misgivings.

“You will not allow this to interfere with your education or my career,” he says. It isn’t a question, and the second-guessing seems to irritate you in return. Good. Let him irritate you. He wants you to hate him, wants you to hate each other. Let him only see your vapidity, your recklessness. 

“Only if you don’t,” you reply challengingly. For the first time this evening, Snape’s mouth twitches for an instant into a half-smile.

“I can assure you, Miss [Last name], it will not.”

Snape feels he will have to be the strong one here. You seem naturally impudent—you were, after all, expelled from your previous school—and far too smart for your own good. He decides he simply will not let any slip up on your part slide. He’ll have to be strict and distant. Such luck, then, that that is his usual _modus operandi._

“Good,” you say. “Then I guess it’s agreed.”

“Good,” he replies, clipped and icey.

There’s a long moment of silence. You’re waiting to be dismissed, he realizes when he sees you watching him. Distractedly, he waves toward the door, expecting you to see yourself out. But you clear your throat.

“Um, professor,” you say, “I don’t know where my dorm is.”

“Your dorm?” Snape snaps, before realizing you mean the Slytherin dormitories and sighing. The thought of leaving his office again is highly unpleasant. “Turn right as you leave this room and walk the hall until you come to a serpent set in the stone. The password is turncloak."

With that, he sits behind his desk and busies himself with his parchments, ignoring you. He doesn’t dare look at you. _Stupid girl._ He despises the feeling you give him—disgust, desire and fury wrapped into one putrescent bundle. You do not linger long before pacing to the door and opening it.

You pause as you go out. He hopes you won’t speak. But as he is beginning to learn, you have a pathological need for the last word.

“Thanks,” you chirp. “See you in class, professor.” Is that mocking in your tone? Snape closes his eyes in discontent.

By the time he opens them again, you are gone.

* * *

Your eyes pop open the next morning, and there’s a moment of sheer disorientation as you sit up and look around the unfamiliar dormitory. Then you sigh, realizing where you are. Realizing you have to go to class. Realizing one of your classes might well be with Professor Snape.

The room was empty when you entered it last night, after looking in several doors to find your trunk, and you were exhausted enough to fall into bed immediately. So introducing yourself to your fellow roommates had to wait. But now they mill about the room, getting dressed and chatting easily, throwing curious glances in your direction. There are four other girls in here, and you smile at each of them in turn.

Two of them are clearly twins, slender and willowy, with silvery blond hair and eyes that speak of the Veela blood in them. They smile identically in your direction. 

Another girl is dark, beautiful, her expression one of haughty disdain as she examines your disheveled hair and old gray tank top.

The fourth girl is, for lack of a better word, beefy. Not fat, but broad and athletic looking, with muscled arms and a boxy torso. Her mousy hair is slicked back in a high ponytail, and she’s currently tugging on a Quidditch jersey over her school shirt.

“Ah, the exchange student,” the haughty girl purrs. You wave pathetically, immediately feeling self-conscious when the twins titter to each other. “Rumor has it, you got expelled from some American school.”

You frown at her. _Hi, nice to meet you too._

“My name’s [First name],” you tell the room at large. Introductions go around, surprisingly pleasant. The twins are Merryweather and Valeria Gray, and you can apparently tell them apart because Valeria’s eyes are blue and Merry’s are lilac. Even looking close, you can’t see a difference.

The haughty, beautiful one is named Harper Hollingsworth, and she’s just as much of a bitch as you immediately surmised. She’s full of questions about your expulsion—won’t leave the fucking topic alone—so you decide you’ll just ignore her for the rest of the year.

The Quidditch player is the nicest of them, though she doesn’t say much. Her name is Brenna MacMillan, and she’s a beater (surprise, surprise).

The Slytherin common room, in the light of the new day, makes you gasp when you enter it. One entire wall comprises a huge window looking out onto a breathtaking underwater scene—all aquamarines and deep greens, seaweed growing thick, drifting with the currents. You’re underground, you surmise, and it looks like you have a view of the bottom of the Black Lake near the castle. 

The decorations are of a similar color scheme to your dorm room—silver and leafy green—and the eclectic furniture is luxurious, with gilded details and hand carved patterns. A huge marble fireplace stands in one corner, the flames inside licking deliciously at the heated air. Nothing here is like Salem, all hard lines and corners. The castle is peculiar, decadent and extravagant.

At 8:30 you make your way alone to the Great Hall. Coming into the loud room full of boisterous students only makes you more aware of your lack of friends. You take a seat at the Slytherin table, as far from Harper and the Gray twins as you can, and eat in silence.

Curious eyes follow you from all corners, and at one point you are swooped upon by a Slytherin prefect, a charming sixth year boy by the name of Fenwick Foxworth. He’s full of questions: how do you like the dorms, what year are you in, what do you want to do when you graduate...You get a little strained the longer they go on—you’re too fucking tired for this.

“Oi, Foxworth, shove off, will you?”

“Yeah, you’re giving the girl an aneurysm.”

Fenwick is shocked, but luckily does stop talking, and you look up to your saviors. Two identical faces grin back—shaggy red hair, brown eyes, freckles. They’re around your age, maybe a year younger, and their smiles are infectious. _Cute._

Fenwick slumps off and the twins shove themselves onto the bench beside you at the Slytherin table. You notice, for some reason, a few of your fellow Slytherins give their red-trimmed robes very dirty looks.

“Thanks,” you say, relieved. “I was pretty sure he’d start asking about my deepest secrets, or my relationship with my mother.”

The twins laugh. “Not a problem,” one of them replies.

“Foxworth's a git,” says the other. “When we noticed you were being harassed...”

“We executed a rescue mission,” his brother finishes. He winks at you cheekily. “Behind enemy lines.”

You’re not really sure what that means, but the boys don’t give you a chance to ask.

“Fred Weasley,” one of them says, extending a hand to shake. His grip is firm, his fingers rugged. “And my brother, George.” You shake the others’ hand as well, a little dizzy.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re twins,” George explains, and you laugh, sudden and surprised by the dry humor.

“[First name] [Last name],” you introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you.”

You learn the boys are a year below you and in Gryffindor, but they couldn’t pass up the opportunity to come speak with you.

“Actually, our friend Lee Jordan dared us,” George says thoughtfully. He waves across the hall to a boy at the Gryffindor table with long black dreadlocks, then points at you like _look! We got her!_ The dreadlocks kid waves back cheerfully and gives them a cheeky thumbs up.

“You probably know this already,” Fred says, beaming, “but the whole school is talking about you.”

_Great._

“Rumors abound,” George agrees. “Some people think you’re a genius, and Dumbledore begged you to come to Hogwarts to raise the cumulative GPA.”

“Other people think you’re a dangerous criminal on the run,” Fred says. 

“We like that theory,” his brother adds. The boys grin at you, and you shrug.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you say. “I got expelled from Salem, and Dumbledore gave me another chance. Nothing too interesting.”

“Oh but that’s where you’re wrong,” Fred replies. “An expulsion sounds like _loads_ of fun.”

“How’d you manage it?” his brother says. 

“If you don’t mind us asking,” Fred finishes.

Where Harper’s interest in your expulsion irritates you, you can’t help but like the grinning twins. They’re the kind of charmers who have the uncanny knack of making instant friends — you feel comfortable around them, and you like their attention. So, rolling your eyes, you tell the story — the tower, the firewhiskey, the explosion. 

The Weasley twins beam the whole time, laughing and expressing surprise at all the appropriate moments. At the end of the story, they congratulate you, sarcastically shaking your hand. You’re laughing the entire time—and after yesterday and your interactions with Snape, it feels utterly good.

“Too bad you’re in Slytherin,” Fred says. “You’d’ve been a pride to our house.” 

“We could always use more trouble,” George adds, catching your eye. You hold his gaze. Is he flirting?

Suddenly, Fred looks off down the table, and his smile falters. You follow his gaze and with a jolt, notice Snape making his way along the row, handing papers to the students he passes. The twins are immediately forgotten. He looks amazing this morning, tall and draped in his long black robe and slim-fitting, high collared suit. His dark hair is swept back from his face, as though he’s just run a hand through it, but tendrils are already falling to frame his sharp cheekbones. You could cut herself on those cheekbones.

“Ah, blimey,” says Fred, glancing at his brother. “The grim reaper’s on his way.” George looks back, catches sight of Snape, and rolls his eyes.

“Don’t envy you,” he says. “Having that git for a head of house.”

“But we’d better be off,” Fred says, standing from the bench and pulling George up with him. “He’s likely to take points just for being in his territory.”

“Nice meeting you, [Last name],” George says as they start away. “Maybe we’ll see you around.”

You wave after the retreating boys, watch them nudge each other mischievously, glancing back over their shoulders at you. You smile to yourself. Best part of Hogwarts so far.

Well...save for one. You look back at Snape, still slowly making his way down the row. Thing is, he’s also the worst part. Go figure. 

You blush when his dark eyes flick to you, and you realize you’re staring. Hunching back over your porridge, you keep your eyes carefully on the grains of the tabletop, hoping he won’t stop by you.

But it seems he has to. Surely, it isn’t his choice. You have a feeling you’d love to completely avoid each other, but soon you feel a tall presence behind you and watch his shadow darken the table. 

At the risk of looking like a social idiot, you turn to face him. He doesn’t look at you, instead shuffling through his stack of papers until he finds the right one.

He pulls it out and examines it, eyebrows knitting in concentration as he reads. Then, with a “hmm,” he hands it to you. You take it, looking down.

Your schedule. Obviously. Why is your heart racing so hard at his very presence?

“You seem to be specializing in Potions,” he says, low and silky.

You nod—you want to run your own apothecary some day, but your throat is too dry to tell him that. Why have you suddenly lost all your nerve? In the light of the new day, Snape seems nothing but intimidating. Your professor’s lips narrow into a thin line. Disappointment?

“Then I suppose I will have to see you in class,” he says. And he sweeps away. 

Taking a deep breath, your eyes return to your schedule:

9 - 10 AM: ADVANCED ALCHEMY - Prof. Vector

10 - 11 AM: FREE STUDY

11 AM - 12 PM: ADVANCED HERBOLOGY - Prof. Sprout

12 - 1 PM: LUNCH

1 - 3 PM: (Double) ADVANCED POTIONS - Prof. Snape

That two hour timeblock at the end of the day, and the name of the teacher in charge of the subject, make your blood run cold. Of course. Of course he’s the Potions Master. The one subject you can’t avoid is the one he teaches.

You reflect momentarily on the cruelty of fate. But then bells ring out, signifying the end of breakfast, and you get up to start your day of classes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE FOR THE REVIEWS JUST SAYIN'


	6. First Things First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your amazing reviews. I'm glad you're enjoying Snape's pain >;)

* * *

_Inside her, there's longing.  
_ _This girl's an open page.  
_ _Book marking, she's so close now.  
_ _This girl is half his age._

"Don't Stand So Close To Me" - The Police

* * *

The day is as unpleasant as can be expected. Snape spends his morning with shaking, brainless eleven-year olds—he’s quite convinced personalities develop only after puberty. His second through fifth year classes don’t offer much apart from tedium, either—especially having to spend an hour watching Harry Potter and his little gang bicker with Draco Malfoy and his. But at least the sixth years seem to know what they’re doing. He only accepts those who score Outstanding on their O.W.L.s, which usually weeds out the complete idiots.

Then he has the two hour block at the end of the day with his seventh years. This is a small, rare group of students he actually respects. They scored high on their O.W.L.s, then went on to prove themselves in Potions by receiving exceptionally high marks. There are seven of them in all—two Slytherins, two Ravenclaws, a Gryffindor, a Hufflepuff and…you. 

In years past, Snape tended to grow close to the small groups of Advanced Potions students. He knows and even likes many of them, acting as advisor as they decide what to do with their lives beyond Hogwarts, and some keep in touch with the occasional letter. He used to allow Advanced Potions Club to take place after class in his own office.

That may well have to change. If you are part of this group, he’ll have to distance himself from all of them to avoid raising suspicion. The thought leaves Snape with a strange melancholy in his chest—despite himself, Advanced Potions groups have become something he actually likes.

He strides into class after the students have already seated themselves, having dropped off a few books in his office during passing period. He keeps his eyes firmly from straying toward you, where you sit with the two other Slytherins. Both are males—one is the older Zabini boy, an obvious favorite among the Slytherin females. The other is named Malkovich, and he has the cold, highbrow look of the pureblood aristocrats. You’re chatting with Zabini, who leans forward, all testosterone and interest. He keeps glancing down your shirt which, to be fair, is buttoned far too low.

Snape almost reprimands you for the uniform being out of regulation, but how would that look? Still, it irritates him every time he glances at you and feels tempted to look at your cleavage. This is already turning into a bigger issue than he surmised. Perhaps he’ll have to speak to you about an Obliviate again…or gods, he could just do it to you himself. You wouldn’t even know, and it would make things so much easier…

No. He will not stoop that low.

Snape realizes he’s leaning against his desk at the head of the class, and most eyes are already directed at him. You and Zabini fall silent when you notice him staring, and Snape is relieved to pass the look off as disapproval.

“Now,” he says, ripping his eyes away from you and not allowing them to return. “Turn to page 197 in your books.”

He’s greeted by the rustling of textbooks as he sweeps around his desk on the pretense of glancing at his lesson plan. In reality, Snape is simply trying to decide how to most effectively ignore you for the rest of the day. Start small, he tells himself. No need to consider how to ignore you for the entire year—begin with one day at a time.

The lesson progresses as usual after that. He gives the class a lecture on Golpalott’s Third Law and sets them to work on a Wiggenweld potion to continue with the week’s antidote theme. The students cut up their salamanders and stir in honeywater until an hour has passed and most potions are simmering peacefully, a bright green. 

Of course, when he strides by you _(damnable girl!)_ , the hue of your brew is absolutely perfect. He curls his lip at it in any case, which he’s pleased to see makes you look down abashedly. You bury your nose in your book, rereading for any hint as to what you’ve done wrong. Of course, there is nothing. 

This is worrisome. Not only are you interested in potion making, you are good at it. This is very, very worrisome.

Class ends and Snape has the students bottle their concoctions for testing. He doesn’t, as is his custom, discuss the possibility of starting an Advanced Potions Club, as he hasn’t yet decided whether he’ll allow it this year, with Miss [Last name] in the equation.

Snape turns his back to the students as they filter out, thanking and bidding him farewell. He pretends to be deeply involved in the book on his desk until the shuffle of feet stops and the door to the room closes.

He lets out a deep sigh. That hadn’t gone too badly. He succeeded in ignoring you for two entire hours. Perhaps he _can_ do this for the whole year…

“Sorry, sir,” a voice speaks from near the door, and Snape looks up quickly, mood darkening when he sees you standing there. You must see it on his face, because you quickly say, “Sorry, sorry…” But you do not retreat from his classroom. You just clutch at your bag and shuffle your feet nervously.

* * *

God he’s intimidating. Is this how he treats all his students, or are you a special case? 

You’ve heard more than one whisper about how difficult Professor Snape is, that he’s a perfectionist, that he does not stand for any fooling about in his class. He’s possibly the least popular teacher at the school, but no one questions his authority or intelligence. After how enjoyable your other classes were that day—Sprout, in particular, is hilarious—you resigned herself to a shitty couple of hours at the end. 

But this is Potions! God, you _love_ Potions. And you even managed to enjoy Snape’s class. Unlike the labs at Salem, modern and antiseptic, his are located in the old, medieval castle dungeons. You love the atmosphere in his classroom, quiet and focused, with the flickering candlelight and rows of books and ingredients along every wall. It lends itself so well to potion making, certainly more authentic than anything you experienced in the states. 

And he’s a damn good lecturer—he doesn't treat his students like a bunch of idiots, and he manages to be both interesting and charismatic, in a dry, intellectual way. You were disappointed when the bell rang.

Snape cocks an eyebrow at you, keeping his face impassive. You can’t tell a single thing going on behind those black eyes.

“Yes, Miss [Last name]?” he asks after a beat, urging you to speak. You smile, shrug.

“My potion…” you reply, dropping your bag and stepping toward him, partially to get a reaction. Snape remains as still as a statue, folding his arms over his chest. “Um, when you passed by at the end of class…”

You shrug again, watching him watch you intently, and almost give up. But you’re not the type to let something like this slide. It’ll bug you until you get the grade, and that might take a week. No good. 

So you take a deep breath. “Well, frankly, the look on your face made me think I’d screwed it up. I mean, to me it looked okay, but you’re the professor, you know? And I just won’t be able to stop thinking about it if I don’t know what went wrong. That’s just kind of how I am, you know? I probably won’t be able to sleep tonight or, or even focus…”

You stop abruptly when Snape holds up a hand, closing his eyes. Christ, you were rambling. It happens when you’re extremely nervous. A blush flames up your cheeks, but silently you thank him for stopping you. People usually let you go on on for far longer than that, out of a misplaced sense of courtesy, until you’re so wrapped up in talking that you lose your train of thought. You’ve been known to completely switch topic mid-ramble and not even know. Your mouth is always getting you into trouble.

“Did I say,” Snape begins, “aloud, mind you, that your potion was under par?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Regardless of what you _think_ you read in my expression,” he interrupts, “rest assured, Miss [Last name], had your work been anything but sufficient, you would know.”

You blink, at a loss. Jesus. What an asshole. His lip doesn’t even twitch away from that sneer.

“Oh. Okay. So…it was good?” 

Snape sighs, as though he has the burdens of the world upon him, and manages to unfold his arms long enough to pace over to the neat little vials of potion on his desk. He plucks one up, examining the label where you’ve written your name and the date.

“If it will ease your mind,” he says, no lack of scorn in his tone, “we can simply test it now. If only to facilitate your evacuation from my classroom.” You scoff, affronted, but he ignores you. All his talk about remaining professional, and here he is being a blatant dick!

He sweeps past you, close enough that the edge of his robes brush against your arm, and you catch the faintest hint of his masculine scent. The smell brings back vivid sense memories, but you stuff them down and put them away. Instead, you turn to watch him place your vial near another set of tinctures and tubes along the back wall.

With quick, dextrous twitches and flicks of his hands, Snape concocts a test reagent specifically for the Wiggenweld potion from memory, in a matter of seconds. It’s extremely impressive. Though a test reagent is not nearly as complicated as an actual potion, his hands hands are so precise and accurate, they are a thrill to watch. He works like a virtuoso conducting a many-parted orchestra, measuring and mixing and pipetting, until he comes up with an apple-red tincture in a tiny test tube.

“If the mixture turns colorless after we add your submission, it means it is acceptable,” he explains, preparing a dropper with your potion. “The faster the color changes, of course, the more accurately the potion was made. Alternatively,” he allows himself a smirk at your expense, “there could be any number of other reactions. And all of them will tell me exactly what. Went. Wrong.”

Three droplets of your potion are added to the reagent with each of his last three words, and you watch with bated breath.

To your immense relief, the mixture turns clear as water after only a few seconds. Snape watches, eyebrows furrowed, as though hoping for it to start smoking or explode. 

Then he lets out a quiet, “Hm,” and begins to clear up his instruments with no further comment. 

“What does colorless mean?” you ask sarcastically, knowing it’s practically perfect. You can’t help but smile at his evident disappointment with your success. “Is that bad? Did I mess it up?” Teasing is thick in your tone. You practically watch him bristle from here.

He spins on his heel to point at you with the glass stirring rod he’s cleaning, the tiniest hint of a smile lifting his mouth. It’s so surprising, and so utterly rewarding, that you feel your heart leap at the sight of it. He’s much better looking when he smiles.

“Out, [Last name],” he says, now pointing the stirrer to the door. “And when next you are tempted to waste my time on your needless concerns, think again.”

“So…do I get an A?” you ask, clasping your hands behind your back and twisting your shoulders in a way that might seem cutely innocent if it wasn’t so calculated. It actually looks blatantly flirtatious. You step toward him in the act of heading to the door, and he rolls his eyes at you, his face going hard again.

“Out,” he repeats. “You’ll receive your grade in due course. And I doubt you’ll be anything but pleased with yourself, as usual.”

“Aw, gee thanks, Professor,” you say, fighting the urge to stick your tongue out at him as you walk over to snag your bookbag off the ground.

You purposefully keep your legs straight and bend down further than entirely necessary, showing off your ass to him under the school skirt. It goes down to your thighs, obviously, but the lacy black tops of your thigh-high stockings are on display. You have a feeling that’ll be enough to get his imagination running.

Of course, it might also get you into trouble, but you want to see the look on his face. To see if he even notices. To remind him how disappointed he should be that he can’t want you. It’s evil of you, but kind of a harmless evil. And he really is being a dick.

He notices. You look back at him as you continue to bend over on the pretense of making sure your buckles are all latched, and you find him watching you with hard eyes. Not even attempting to conceal his gaze. He locks eyes with you and cocks an eyebrow, the compressed line of his lips making his thoughts plain. More of that, he’s trying to express, and you’ll have to have another talk about an Obliviate.

You straighten, feeling stupid and slutty, and walk to the door.

“Really though,” you say, your tone losing all its irony. “Thanks. You totally put me at ease.”

“Surely you have homework to do,” Snape replies, exasperated, turning back to the reagents table.

Snorting, disturbed by how much you like him, you leave.

* * *

Classes pick up with startling speed over the next month. Buried under magical theory and practical labs in all of your subjects, you find yourself with very little time to dwell upon Severus Snape. 

Seventh year is no fucking joke here at Hogwarts. You attend double Potions sessions three days a week but, for the first month, apart from those six hours your mind is blessedly Potions-Master-free. You just don’t have the energy or mental space for him. And there are no lingering looks between the two of you, no tense moments. You scarcely speak to him at all, actually, as he’s learned to keep his expression carefully neutral every time he passes by your cauldron. You have no excuse to seek out his office hours, as all of his lessons are beautifully planned and leave very little room for further questions.

Not so for his younger years, apparently. Every time you pass by his office on the way to the Slytherin common room, a line of nervous students is milling about, awaiting entry. Of course, there are a hundred other routes you could take to the dorms, but time and again you find yourself on the same path you took on your first night at Hogwarts. You almost relish the rush of butterflies that fills you every time you pass the Potions Master’s door.

You wouldn’t call your social life _thriving_ quite yet, but you’re making friends. The six other Advanced Potions classmates are all great, as are the Weasley twins, who keep popping in and out of your days as suddenly as firecrackers. They’ll often waylay you in the halls, laughing and nudging, to say together, “Hi, [Last name]!” or tell a quick joke before jogging off to class. Once, they jump out at you from behind a statue, yelling _boo_. After a rush of terror, you scream with laughter and chase them for two corridors before McGonagall arrives and puts a stop to it. 

Perhaps they recognize a kindred spirit in you. At Salem, you and your friends were the resident troublemakers. Fred and George are very similar. They’re always causing mischief and getting into trouble, but everyone in the castle loves them—besides Snape, of course. And to his credit, they _are_ a bit exhausting—you think depressively that you’re just getting too old for their shenanigans. But you can’t help but get caught up in their charm. And the looks George throws you sometimes...you’re just saying, maybe he could help you take your mind off your professor.

Near the end of September, Snape—with pressure from a few of his students—agrees to starting an Advanced Potions Club. He’ll allow the use of his office a few days a week to brew off-curriculum potions, provided the class runs them by him beforehand.

Of course, the two Ravenclaws in class—a boy named Terrance and a girl named Julia—jump at the chance and immediately take charge. There’s talk of utilizing books from the Restricted Section in the school library, which Snape assures will be a possibility if there is academic reasoning behind it. 

That gets your attention. You love the idea of brewing potions that you otherwise might not get to see. However, it’ll also bring you in closer contact with Snape—the idea of which is both appealing and terrifying.

You sign up in any case. You’re not about to let one drunken hook up ruin your last year of school.

The first meeting of the club is held the following day, and the class’s only Gryffindor—Finnegan Grimsby—brings along a restricted Dark Arts book in which he found what is apparently the only true love potion in existence. It’s not just Amortentia, which causes infatuation, lust and obsession. This potion is said to cause actual chemical love in the human brain.

It’s a dangerous brew, obviously, and Snape expresses his doubts about the group making it—not least because there is no known antidote, and one or two ingredients are extremely poisonous if handled improperly. You catch something in his expression while he relays his misgivings that almost speaks of amusement with your group. You wonder if there’s not more to this potion than he’s saying.

You pull the book toward you, studying its ingredients and the way they’re put together. The potion is immensely complicated, almost overly complicated. Yes, many of the components are known aphrodisiacs and endorphin releasers. But the temperatures you have to use and the reactions between them render some of them inert and completely change the effects of others. It’s almost like someone is trying to make it _look_ like a love spell, while actually concocting something completely different.

You relay this to the group, and you all spend the next hour bent together over the old tome, making notes and whispering theories. Snape sweeps around behind you, watching with clear interest and something close to pride, giving hints and advice whenever the group loses its train of thought or derails. 

At one point, he bends over the book, right next to you, tracing the words with one long white finger, smiling as he explains some complicated piece of theory. He makes a joke, something wry and clever which causes his students to laugh. Without thinking, you put a hand on his arm, giggling, absolutely tickled, and for a moment you lock eyes. He actually smiles at you, easy and amused, for a split second before you both realize what you’re doing and pull away from each other.

Clearing his throat, Snape backs away. Shortly later, the club has completely picked apart the potion, purely theoretically, to reveal it will actually create a draught that renders its drinker, not in love, but blind, deaf and dumb.

“Well done,” Snape says, giving the group three slow claps.

He goes on to explain that the potion was created in the fourteenth century as a horrible practical joke, circulating through hedge witches and castle sorcerers to reveal them for what they were—No-Maj imposters. This book is very old, used before common knowledge of the spell’s true nature was revealed. 

“Perhaps,” Snape says to Finn, “this was an excellent choice after all, Grimsby. It teaches an important lesson in potion making—never take a recipe at face value. You are all experienced in its art. You must think it through.”

“So can we make it?” one of the Slytherins, Benji Zabini, asks. 

“You wish to brew,” Snape replies blankly, “a draught that renders its drinker deaf, sightless, and unable to express themselves for the rest of their doubtlessly miserable existence?”

All of the students nods enthusiastically. Snape regards each of you for a stern, lingering moment.

“You may,” he says, smirking. “Obviously.”

Advanced Potions Club is turning out to be the best choice you’ve made in the year so far. It gives you a chance, not only to work on some of the most fascinating projects you’ve ever come across, but to do it with a group of intelligent people who are truly as passionate about it as you are. 

Plus, there’s Severus Snape. For all your attempts to keep him off your mind entirely, you have to admit you enjoy the interactions you have. He’s so smart. Spiky and caustically sarcastic, yes, but so damn clever. And group settings certainly make things less awkward between you. You’ve started to see a bit of who he is as a person, and you like to think he sees the real you, too.


	7. Midnight Meddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all precious beautiful angels and I love you. Thank you for the reviews and kudos.
> 
> I kinda like torturing Snape. So I'm glad you guys like it too. You sadists ;)

* * *

_She burns like the sun.  
_ _I can't look away.  
_ _She'll burn our horizons,  
_ _Make no mistake._

"Sunburn" - Muse

* * *

At the beginning of October, signs appear throughout the castle declaring the upcoming arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, the two other European schools that will be competing in the Triwizard Tournament. 

You’ve discussed at length with some of your new friends whether you’ll be entering the competition. Fred and George are by far the most enthusiastic about it—“A thousand galleons prize money! Think what you could do with it!”—but you’ve firmly chosen not to. Too much work, too much stress, and too much danger. Besides, you’re not exactly champion material—and you have a feeling all of Hogwarts would be pissed if an exchange student is chosen as their representative. It’s a matter of respect, really. At least, that’s how you save face when the twins tease you about opting out. Truthfully, the very idea of competing is fucking horrifying.

One night, you’re in the library poring over an essay on ancient Ogham runes, trying to compare their form language to the better known Norwegian variety. You’ve been putting it off and are still two inches short on your parchment when you look up to find it’s well past curfew. You’ve taken to huddling in the back of the library, near the Restricted Section, to avoid any interaction with others when you’re trying to concentrate. But apparently this time it’s your undoing—Madam Pince completely overlooked you when she shooed out the rest of the students. That, or she doesn’t care. Seventh years, particularly those who are of age, are granted quite a lot of freedom here. Broken curfew rules are often overlooked if a student is deep in their studies. 

All the same, you’re cursing the old woman as you gather up your books and parchment, deciding you need sleep more than you need to write the conclusion tonight. You’ll just have to do it under the desk in Herbology tomorrow morning.

You rush from the library, past a surprised Madam Pince who is dozing at her desk. Avoiding authority is second-nature after your years at Salem, so you take the back way to the dungeons yet again. The halls are dark, empty. The castle is sleeping. It’s past midnight, the clock in the Entrance Hall informs you. How did it get so late?

You slip through a wooden access door and down a narrow set of spiral stone stairs, muttering _“Lumos”_ only when it becomes clear the torches aren’t lit here tonight. The hallway leading to Snape’s office door is dark as an abyss, so when you hear rapid knocking from the other end, you feel a rush of fear.

You stop, stretch out your wand arm and hold it into the darkness. Just beyond the next curve in the hall is Snape’s door—and it sounds like someone’s pounding on it.

“I know you’re in there, Snape,” a rough voice growls through the darkness. “You can’t avoid me forever, now open up!”

You recognize the growl. Professor Moody, the new DADA instructor. He’s an ex-Auror, and while you don’t have any classes with him yourself, you’ve heard a lot about him. His lessons are...exciting, to say the least. You’ve even heard rumors he’s actually casting the _Imperius_ on his students to teach them how to fight it.

But now, in the darkness of the hallway, there’s a strange malice to his tone when he speaks Snape’s name. It makes you wary of him.

Moody, meanwhile, has noticed the glow of light around the bend in the hall and the abrupt halt of your footsteps.

“Who’s there?” his voice snarls in your direction, and you freeze, unsure of what to do. Come forward and confess, risk a detention? Or run?

Suddenly, a large hand is laid over yours on your wand, and a silky voice whispers _“Nox”_ into your ear. Long fingers clamp over your mouth to cut off the scream of surprise threatening to spill from you as the light pops out. The hand removes itself from your wand and immediately slides around your torso from behind. Then you are dragged backwards, through a curtain into a dark niche, flung around and pressed face-first into a wall.

You immediately know who has you, with his lean body against your back and his clever fingers digging into your cheek to will you still and silent. He’s breathing slowly into your ear, filling your space with his intoxicating smell—one you remember very well. Every hot burst of his breath sends goosebumps down your spine.

Out in the hallway, Moody moves to investigate. His light edges into your dark little niche, but passes without revealing you. He moves on, limping and grumbling, and hikes up the stairs. How that magical eye of his missed you, you don’t know. Pure luck, probably.

Once he’s gone, you tear yourself away from your captor and turn to face him, pushing him away by the chest. Now the fear has passed, you are _pissed._

“Who the hell do you think you are?” you hiss at Snape, whose pale face remains impassive in the dim light. He regards you with those shrewd black eyes, moving his gaze back and forth across your face.

“Five points from Slytherin,” he says calmly, brushing his hands on his robes as if to wipe off the memory of your touch. “For a rather egregious breach of curfew. Five further points,” he says, holding up a hand when you open your mouth to argue, “for swearing at a member of faculty.”

“What—I—you…” You can’t even get the words together for a moment, watching his stupid, smug fucking face. “How about we take five points from _you_ for assaulting a student in a dark hallway!”

“Miss [Last name]…”

“You scared the shit out of me!...sir.” 

“Apologies,” Snape replies, his face hard. “But I would not call putting out your light an _assault.”_

“Oh yeah? What would you call pushing me into a dark corner and pinning me there?”

“An attempt,” Snape replies, flicking aside the curtain and looking toward the stairs, as if waiting for someone to come along, “to avoid Alastor Moody.” He sighs, gesturing that you should exit the niche and head toward his office. “I suggest we continue this conversation in private, as you seem incapable of keeping your voice at a reasonable volume.”

You stare at him, outraged, but stomp past him. He follows in silence, and you can’t help but let flashes of him just now run through your head again and again—his arm around your body, his palm against your mouth, the smell of his skin, the way his every breath into your ear sent a bundle of sparks from tailbone to shoulder blade. He was all invigoration and coiled tension. And the only effect of his body against yours is to undo the apathy you’ve been working on for the past month.

Just like that, the crush is back, full force. _God. Dammit._

* * *

You stand aside as Snape unlocks his office door and gestures you in. What is he doing? Does he _want_ to include you in his secrets? 

Of course, as soon as he saw you in the hall, stretching out your light as Mad-Eye Moody pounded at the door, his first reaction was to conceal you both. So he did, without forethought. He didn’t want your light to reveal his presence to the angry ex-Auror—that’s one interaction Snape can certainly live without—but he supposes it was unnecessary to hold you the way he did.

Your ass against his hipbones, your back against his chest, the smell of your hair filling his nose...It was hard, for a moment, to keep from nuzzling your neck or sliding his tongue along your ear. He could have. He felt enough in your reaction, once you realized who had you, to know you might have moaned at his touches. The ever-so-subtle way you arched and pressed back against him is evidence enough.

Snape’s experience over the past month has not been as effortlessly distracted as yours. Yes, he has Mad-Eye to avoid, but otherwise school is depressingly day-to-day. Only with you _(that damnable girl)_ in his classroom or his office does Snape feel anything other than boredom.

He finds himself watching you, unable to tear his eyes away. You burn. You smolder. Your laugh is electricity in his veins. The look of concentration you wear—brow furrowed, chewing the inside of your cheek—makes him want to shake you. And the guilty conscious grows every night he tosses in his bed and your face springs to mind.

The solution is simple. If he is fascinated because he knows so little of you, then he needs to unravel you, bit by bit, until there is nothing left. He wants to see the truth of you, because it can’t possibly be as incredible as the thing he’s constructed in his head.

Avoiding you no longer seems like it will work. Snape has recently decided on a new tactic: learn too much. Destroy the mystery for both of you. When you realize how human each other are, the interest will inevitably wane. Snape can’t imagine himself being attractive to a girl like you, and he can’t imagine a girl like you being attractive to him. It’s just a matter of bringing that out. All ignoring each other does is heighten the fascination. 

It’s an experiment; he has to treat it as such. His first hypothesis—avoidance → disinterest → resolution of the issue—seems bunk. Now to begin work on his new theory—interaction → dissolution of mystery → mutual disgust → resolution of the issue. No, he does not truly want to get to know you. And yes, it has one more step than the previous hypothesis. But Snape is willing to try.

“Now,” Snape begins as he closes the door behind him, “to continue our conversation. Perhaps I acted…rashly in moving you bodily from the hallway. I did not stop to think. Suffice it to say I had no interest in speaking with Moody after midnight on a Thursday, and I wasn’t about to allow your meddling to muck it up.”

“My _meddling?"_ you ask, folding your arms as you turn toward him. Your fury is clear, written in every line of your face. You are quick to anger, damnable girl, especially when you feel you’re being mistreated. _A foolish, naive way of looking at the world—as though it owes her something._

“You are up past curfew,” Snape replies calmly, watching your eyes as his lack of emotion infuriates you further. You want him to rise to it, he realizes, and he can’t help but smile at the fact that he isn’t going to. Not this time. “You are in a rarely used hallway, very near my personal chambers, apparently spying on another faculty member. What would you call that, if not meddling?”

“I’d call it trying to get to bed after hours of work!” you say. “I wasn’t _spying!_ What’s with that paranoia?” Your look drops into deep suspicion, and you regard him up and down. “Why are you avoiding Professor Moody? What are you hiding?”

“Even if I were hiding something,” Snape replies flatly, “which I am not, it would not be any business of my students’. You’ve a very lofty estimation of yourself, Miss [Last name].”

“Most teachers tell me to foster that inquisitive, go-get-em attitude,” you shoot back, a grin starting around your flirtatious lips. 

You can’t bloody help yourself, can you? Some part of you insists on treating him as a peer, not an authority figure. The trouble is, you never say anything specifically disrespectful, balancing the thin line of appropriateness with all the expertise of an acrobat. Probably, this is simply how you deal with authority—you come off as the girl who can talk herself out of a bad grade, or flirt and joke and smile until a grievance is forgotten. 

Snape wonders if you were hell on other male teachers in your past. It is very likely. Though they probably hadn’t drunkenly fucked you in a hotel room.

“Most teachers think too highly of your intelligence,” Snape says coldly. Your bold smile fades away. “They see that clever grin of yours and are fooled into thinking that you know what you are doing. Would you like me to tell you what _I_ see when I look at you?”

“Go right ahead,” you reply, narrowing your eyes.

“An inflated ego,” he says. “A dependence on looks and a clever comeback, with no real intellectual depth to back it up. In short, Miss [Last name], I see something vapid. Something that, once it ceases to be _pretty,_ will find the world a much crueler place.”

There. Harsher than the truth, and he knows it. It might even get him into trouble if you were to report him to Dumbledore. But the whole point is to make you hate him. He is ready to see tears well in your eyes, as he has seen so many times in so many other students to which he revealed the cruelty of the truth. 

But you don’t well up. Don’t even look offended. Perhaps it’s because you know he’s lying—you know you’re more than a pretty face and a flirtatious grin. But you can’t know _he_ knows that. That underestimation on his behalf is supposed to hurt.

But you simply smile, your grin taking on the aspect of something blatantly evil. A true Slytherin is coming out, Snape can tell, and his heart sinks.

“You think I’m pretty and clever, Professor?” you ask sweetly. Snape rolls his eyes. “That’s what you said, isn’t it? I’m pretty and clever enough to sleep with and then abandon, right? Pretty and clever enough to press up against in a dark hallway, and then get blamed for it.” You’re getting angry now, he can see it. It’s all getting laid on the table, and he won’t let your words sting him. He won’t feel the guilt. He will be ice to your fire. “Pretty and clever enough to attract your caustic, horrible attention. But not smart enough to see it coming.” 

“I believe I said...something like that, yes,” Snape replies coolly. He can almost watch you scream internally. You hands are balled into fists at your sides. This lack of reaction really has you going. “Not in so many words, of course. Again, you seem to give yourself far too much credit.”

That makes you snap, which is perhaps what Snape is going for. He’s not sure when it became a mission to hurt you as much as he could, but that seems to be what is happening now. In any case, you all-but snarl through your bared teeth and stalk the two paces up to him. Your hand raises, ready to strike his face.

Snape strikes first, whipping out to wrap his fingers around your wrist and hold you still. Slapping a teacher has consequences you can’t avoid, far more than the words you just exchanged. You are breathing hard. Your pupils are tiny. You look so fierce he aches for you. Wants you.

And before he can stop himself, he uses your momentum to bring your warm body slamming against his. Suddenly your faces are inches apart, held there by his vice-like grip. He feels your beautiful curves pressed against his chest and stomach, feels every puff of your breath against his face.

“Consider your actions very carefully right now,” Snape warns, unable to keep his eyes off your lips. 

You stand, suspended in time, for what seems like eternity, staring at each other. Snape watches your pupils dilate. Feels you slowly press closer.

“I’m considering a lot of actions,” you say, your voice still thick with anger. But the sex in your tone goes straight to…somewhere entirely separate from his brain. He straightens, pretending it doesn’t. 

“You are very good at getting yourself into trouble,” he says, slowly releasing your wrist from between his fingers. 

You growl at him, ripping your hand away as soon as his grip loosens. He notices with something like alarm that he left the red and white impression of his hand on your skin. He didn’t mean to do that—of course not. Gods, is he a monster?

You rock back a step, and Snape relaxes, having just enough time to think that perhaps this hellish interaction is over.

Then you are on him again, wrapping your arms around his neck and rocking up to force your mouth against his.

Snape stands stiffly as your full lips open, your tongue spilling out with quickened passion. He meets your tongue with his, inhaling sharply through his nose, squeezing his eyes closed. His head isn’t catching up to his blood flow, not at all. For a few glorious seconds, all he knows is that he wants more of you.

And then he knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows that kissing a student _—she_ kissed _me!—_ in his office at midnight is grounds for termination. But, gods, your lips and your tongue… No, this is utterly disgusting, utterly _wrong…_ Oh, but your body in his hands…A _student…_

His hand flies to your hair, buries his fingers in it at the back of your head. He uses it to pull your mouth harder against his, deepening the kiss fiercely. For a long moment, he lets it continue, relishing your taste.

But when you let out a strangled moan, Snape’s mind clears just enough to put a stop to this. He tugs back on his handful of your hair, ripping away from you. With a gasp, you jump back and detangle yourself from him.

It wasn’t a long kiss—probably no more than twenty seconds—but something snaps in Snape’s mind. He can’t deal with this. And the best—the worst?—part is that you still look absolutely furious.

“Contain yourself, Miss [Last name],” he says. Which, looking back, might be the wrong thing to say. 

Keen rage fills your eyes once more; your mouth opens with shock at his sheer audacity—he did, after all, return your kiss more than generously. You break away from him, forcibly push his chest to separate you...

And promptly slap him across the face.

You stride quickly for the door after that. Snape turns blankly after you, the thoughts in his head reduced to a queer buzzing and the words _did that actually happen?_ repeating over and over. His cheek stings more than he’ll admit.

He gets his mouth to work just as you throw open his office door and step outside. “That cannot happen again,” he calls pitifully. As if it’s his choice. As if it ever was.

“Fucking duh!” you cry back, voice obviously thick with tears. And you slam the door behind you.


	8. Hooky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey babies <3
> 
> Have I mentioned how much I love and appreciate you? Your reviews crack me tf up and sometimes make me cry. You're wonderful.
> 
> Much more Snape next chapter, I promise.
> 
> Also, I guess now is a good time to tell you, this story will be long. As in, I already have like 200 pages written. The drama and angst and fluff and smut are just beginning. So please stick around! Because hooooooh boy do I have plans for you >:)

* * *

_We don't have to talk, we don't have to dance,  
_ _We don't have to smile, we don't have to make friends.  
_ _It's so nice to meet you, let's never meet again.  
_ _We don't have to talk._

"We Don't Have to Dance" - Andy Black

* * *

You wake the next morning hoping last night was a dream. But no. The memories crash back as soon as you are conscious, brutally clear.

You groan, rolling over in bed and slapping a hand to your forehead. God, could you be more stupid? Seriously, do you _want_ to embarrass yourself? What were you _thinking,_ kissing him like that?

Well, there it is. You weren’t thinking at all. In that moment, all you wanted was to wipe the stupid sneer off his face. You wanted a goddamn _reaction,_ to get back at him after he said all those horrible things. And of course, ironically, you wanted to feel his mouth against yours again.

_Mission fucking accomplished, you idiot._

You sit up, rubbing your face hard, trying to banish every memory you have of Professor Snape. What day is it? You glance at the pocket calendar, open on your bedside table. Friday. Almost the weekend. A couple days off sound excellent.

But before that, class. And that includes double fucking Potions with Severus fucking Snape.

Your anxiety increases throughout the day, hour by hour. Every time you think of walking into his classroom, meeting his eye, your stomach bottoms and out and you feel like puking. You remember too clearly the way he reacted when you jumped him—his shoulders going stiff and hunched, his harsh intake of breath when your mouths touched, his hand in your hair, pulling you tight then yanking you away (what a perfect metaphor for his behavior toward you in general.)

You barely stumble through the morning, writing a shitty conclusion to your Runes essay in Herbology, hardly paying attention to lecture and subsequently getting chewed out over it by Sprout after class. Great start.

Lunch is over more quickly than you think should be possible. You barely eat, too busy staring at your plate. And then the bell rings, and suddenly it's Potions time.

Shaking slightly, you start making your way from the Great Hall. _Okay,_ you think. _I can do this. Just act natural. He won’t say anything during class, and if he asks to speak to me afterwards, I can make up some excuse and get the fuck out. He probably won’t anyway. He’s not the confrontational type about this._

Your steps pick up speed. You’ll just go to class and endure, then you’re home free. It’s just a matter of avoiding any one-on-one time with Snape.

Halfway across the Entrance Hall, you’re intercepted by Terrance and Julia, the Ravenclaws in Advanced Potions.

“Hiya, love,” Terrance says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Going our way?”

“Uh…” you say, smiling sheepishly, allowing yourself to be swept along in the surge of students on all sides. “Sure. Yeah.”

“Sure. Yeah," Julia repeats in a terrible American accent. “I love the way you talk, duck. Wish I could do it like that.”

“You’re kidding,” you reply, allowing yourself your first real laugh of the day. “I’d give anything to use the word ‘bloody’ and not sound like an asshole.” 

Terrance and Julia laugh loudly at this, clearly in high spirits, and you allow yourself to be comforted by your friends. For a split second, you forget about last night, lost in Terrance’s chatter and Julia’s wry comments. The three of you speed up, eager to beat the clock to class and see what potion will be brewed today.

Until, that is, you catch sight of a tall, dark haired figure in black robes, disappearing down the stairs to the dungeons. You manage three more steps before the pounding in your ears reaches a fever pitch. Without a word, not even breaking stride, you tear abruptly away from Terrance and Julia. You can’t do this. Too much. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. 

You turn on your heel and stride quickly in exactly the opposite direction. You barely hear your friends’ noises of alarm and bewilderment as your pace accelerates into a harried jog back across the hall. Julia shouts your name once. Then you’re bursting through heavy wooden doors and out into the gray October sun.

You pick up even more speed when your feet meet the grass at the bottom of the steps, working into a full-on run. You don’t know what you’re doing besides fleeing. Just getting away from it, whatever it is. This world of secrets and guilty lust and anger. The world you’ve built for yourself over the last month and a half, in a place that’s supposed to be your new home. Your new start.

And you fucked it up almost immediately.

Tears well under your eyelids as you sprint across the grounds, toward the Blake Lake and the shelter of the trees there. Your lungs work furiously to keep up with your legs.

Why doesn’t he just leave you alone? Why did he feel the need to say those things? Why does he _want_ to hurt you? You know he’s trying to push you away. But there are easier ways, aren’t there? Do you really mean so little to him, that he’ll stoop to petty cruelty just to break whatever bond you have?

Jesus. _Of course_ you mean that little to him. You mean _nothing_ to him. Why are you trying so hard to prove otherwise to you both? 

God, you’re such an _idiot!_

Tears are coming freely now. The lake’s only a few yards away. Reaching up to your throat, you unclasp your cloak and let it flutter to the ground behind you. Your shoes go next, kicked off when you reach the rocky shore. Then your shirt, unbuttoned and flung carelessly aside. You’re pretty sure no one is around, but honestly, at the moment, you couldn’t care less.

You wiggle out of your skirt, still running, once you get to the long dock. Your feet slap the wet wood, covered only in nylon, and you sprint toward the water in nothing but stockings, a bra and underwear. Goosebumps prickle along your arms and legs in the rapidly cooling air.

_This is going to be cold._

But cold is exactly what you need right now.

When your toes meet the edge of the dock, right above the calm gray water, you launch yourself into a running dive. The Blake Lake swallows you with a splash.

For a single, beautiful moment, there is nothing but darkness and silence.

You pop above the surface, gasping. The lake is small, but it’s Autumn and the water is bracingly frigid. The good news, however, is that the shock has broken your train of thought. You allow yourself a few minutes to get used to it, checking for seaweed or other mysterious muck and finding none. Of course, it’s a magical body of water. It’s probably about as clean as a lake can be.

The temperature is more manageable after a bit. Sighing, you float onto your back to stare at the gray sky. You could stay here, you decide, far longer than simply skipping class. You could stay here until the sky grows dark and you fall asleep on the waves. You could spend the rest of your life here, floating and swimming and staring at the clouds.

_And drowning. Don’t forget drowning._

Jesus. When did you get so melodramatic? Maybe Snape is rubbing off on you. There are a couple ironies in that idea.

After quite a long time spent pondering the different ways your Potions Master can “rub off on you” any time he wants (but he, like, will definitely never do that again) you finally chance a glance back toward shore. The dock seems a lot farther away than you left it, having been distanced by currents and gentle waves. Sighing, you straighten in the water and start to swim back. Your breakdown is over. You feel calmer now than you have for a month and a half.

You regret your impromptu skin as soon as you hoist yourself back onto the dock. The wind has picked up, and every gust feels like icy needles against your goose-prickled skin. Your clothes are scattered in a weird zig-zag away from the water, thankfully not having shifted too far from where you left them.

You collect the pieces one at a time, slipping on your skirt and shirt before slipping off your soaking undergarments and shoving them in your bag. It’s not going to be a comfortable walk back to the dorms. Your wand is stuffed at the bottom of an increasingly damp satchel, so the plan is just to get to your room as soon as possible. Hopefully, wrapped in your cloak, you’ll avoid any odd looks. Even with your hair as wet and windblown as it is.

You draw up the hood of your cloak when you near the castle, wondering how smeared your makeup is. The good news is, the grounds are practically abandoned since nearly everyone is in class. When you open the door to the Entrance Hall, you catch sight of a couple playing hooky as they slip down another corridor. But otherwise the enormous chamber is empty. Quickly, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind you, you flee toward the safety of the Slytherin common room.

“Well, well, well—what have we got here?”

You stop in your tracks in a corridor near the dungeon stairs, bringing a hand up to push back your wet hair. You’re already nervously blushing as you turn slowly around.

The Weasley twins are grinning, as usual, leaning casually side-by-side against the wall, arms crossed identically. But their grins falter a little when they fully take in your rumpled form.

George unfolds his arms and steps toward you. “Get caught in a rainstorm, love?” he asks.

“No, George, can’t you see she’s trying out a new look?” Fred says flippantly. “Soaking bloody wet.”

“Very stylish,” George says. Looking down bashfully, you wrap your cloak more tightly around you. You can’t think of anything to say. George notices immediately, and he looks sorry. “Aw, we’re only joking, [Last name]. Didn’t mean anything.”

“You alright?” Fred says, tilting his head. “Peeves wasn’t throwing water balloons, was he?”

You finally manage to crack a smile. “No. Thank god.” You sigh. “I’m okay. It’s a long story.”

George examines you, then looks around, and an evil grin splits his lips. “Are you...skipping class, [Last name]?” he asks. At your silence, his smile widens. “You are, aren’t you?”

Fred’s eyes gleam. “Looks like we’re a bad influence on her, George.”

“Yeah,” you admit. “I just...couldn’t sit through two hours of Potions today.”

“Thought you loved Potions,” George says, bemused. He always seems to remember little details like that about you. It’s part of his charm—the twins have a way of making everyone around them feel special, and it’s extremely endearing.

“It’s not so much the subject itself that I’m avoiding,” you admit, hoping they won’t read too much into it. The boys glance at each other.

“Snape,” they say together, nodding.

“Right git,” George says. 

“Absolute tosser,” Fred agrees. “He giving you trouble, [Last name]? Or more trouble than usual.”

“Need us to help you with him?” George says, nudging your arm. “A bit of revenge? Humiliation?” 

Fred grins evilly. “A spot of _murder?”_

You laugh, in a significantly better mood. “Nah,” you say. “He’s miserable enough on his own. I just needed a break.”

“Can’t blame you,” George says. “We decided on a permanent break from Snape last year.”

“Refused to even take the O.W.L,” Fred continues. He leans toward you conspiratorially. “And melted a few dozen cauldrons for good measure.”

“Madder than we’d ever seen him, after that,” George says, with the air of someone remembering a wonderful dream. “It was beautiful.”

“His face gets surprisingly red,” Fred puts in thoughtfully, “for how pale he is.”

“Well, what are you two doing out of class?” you say, laughing. ”Playing hooky too?”

“Who do you think we are, [Last name]?” George says, sounding wounded. He slings an arm around your shoulder, and together the three of you move down the hall. “That’s insulting, that is.”

“We’re supposed to be in Herbology,” Fred says, and you laugh. 

“But we’ve got important work to do,” his brother continues. 

“Oh yeah?” you say. “Like what?”

Both twins just raise their brows at you. “Confidential,” they say together.

They walk you to the door to the dungeon stairs, where they leave you with cheerful waves and winks. You continue alone to the Slytherin common room, shaking your head, still chuckling. The twins have completely made you forget your breakdown. You’re glad to be getting closer to them.

You spend the next hour locked in the bathroom, bathing and wasting time until lessons end. You want to talk to Benji and Colin to see what happened in Potions today, making up some bullshit about feeling ill for when they inevitably ask where you were. In a class with only six other people, it’s impossible they didn’t notice your absence.

Though the twins calmed you significantly, the anxiety is creeping back. You’re starting to ponder the consequences of skipping class. You can’t imagine Snape is particularly lenient toward those who play hooky. Have you actually made things worse for yourself?

Fuck it. You couldn’t have faced him after last night. This is for the best.

The Advanced Potions boys don’t come back to the Slytherin common rooms until around 4:30, talking and laughing together. You’ve been curled up with a novel in an armchair, and you jump to your feet when they enter.

“There you are, love,” Benji Zabini says, grinning at you in an off-hand and charming sort of way. The guy is gorgeous, tall and model-chiseled, with these incredible light gray eyes that are all the more shocking and beautiful in contrast with his perfect cocoa colored skin. Objectively hot, and he knows it. And he uses it often to get his way. But you like him nonetheless—it’s hard not to—though you immediately friend-zoned him on sheer principle. Sometimes a guy that gorgeous needs a good friend-zoning.

“You missed a good one today, [Last name].” You like Colin Malkovich too, a jovial, energetic jock-type. He’s a Chaser on the Slytherin team, and he’s dating your roommate, Brenna. You can kind of see why it works. Colin talks all the time; Brenna hardly talks at all.

“What’d we do?” you ask eagerly. _Did Snape ask after me? Was he worried I was sick and dying? Did he look horribly guilty and tortured, with gaunt cheeks and rings under his eyes? Did he cry? Did he scream to the heavens, cursing god and the cruelty of fate?_

“Felix Felicis!” Colin replies, and your jaw drops open. 

“No fucking way,” you say, voice shaking. You’ve been begging Snape for the last few weeks to consider allowing you to brew Felix Felicis in Advanced Potions Club. You understand his hesitance, and you understand that you will not be allowed to drink the potion after making it. But that doesn’t mean you can’t use it as practice, for when you’re out of school and can brew anything you damn please. And now they brewed it after all, not extracurricularly, but in class.

“Well,” Benji says in a measured tone, glancing at Colin. “We started on it. Class effort. He took us through practically the entire potion, but it still has to brew for six months.”

 _"You’re fucking kidding me,"_ you exclaim, loudly enough to disrupt a few skittish second years near the window from their game of Exploding Snap.

“Thought you’d be cross,” Colin says, chuckling good-naturedly. “I told Snape he’d have you after his throat if we started it without you, but he just said something naff about the consequences of skipping out on lessons.” You roll your eyes, feeling guilty nonetheless.

“I didn’t feel well,” you explain.

“Julia said something like that,” Benji says, nodding. “Said you looked really off colour and buggered off. Don’t know if Snape is convinced though. You might have a bit of arse kissing to do next week.”

You groan. “Fabulous,” you say. Then: “Okay, but Felix Felicis.” You look back and forth between the boys’ blank faces. “Tell me _everything."_


	9. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of Snape last chapter. I'll try to make sure that doesn't happen again.
> 
> Much Snape here. A whole conversation even!
> 
> Hey guys? Love you guys.

* * *

_Who do you think you are?  
_ _Ha ha ha, bless your soul.  
_ _You really think you're in control?_

"Crazy" - Gnarls Barkley

* * *

You talk with Benji and Colin until bells chime for dinner, then proceed together into the Great Hall. Colin has been going on for the last twenty minutes about a complicated theoretical factor in the Felix Felicis recipe which attributes to the addictive and dangerously toxic quality of the potion. He keeps talking as you move up the stairs, through the rush of students also making their way toward food and friends. 

The thing about Colin, however, is that his voice is freakishly loud, and you’re torn between fascinated by what he’s saying and embarrassed by how often he shouts phrases like “utterly pissed” and “luck buggered.” Your little group attracts more than one annoyed or curious stare.

Dinner isn’t bad tonight. Distracted by friends, you manage to forget your concerns as long as you keep your eyes away from the teachers’ table. Snape is up there—he usually eats dinners in the Great Hall with the rest of you, but is absent for other meals. You think the one appearance a day is probably calculated in to portray a false sense of solidarity. Or maybe he’s required by Dumbledore to endure his students and peers every night.

Every glimpse you catch of his grim white face or long black hair makes your stomach flop. You force your eyes to stay on Colin and Benji.

By the time dessert appears, you’re in a good mood again. The topic has morphed organically from Felix Felicis to a discussion on the Triwizard Tournament. The other schools are set to arrive in just over a week, and from then on life will be interrupted frequently by the competition.

Benji insists he’s putting his name in for consideration—”Rumor has it, just for being champion, you get high marks on every N.E.W.T. without taking the tests”—and Colin is leaning toward it too. 

“Be nice to have a Slytherin champion. Wipe away a bit of the stain on our name.”

“Stain?” you ask.

Being surrounded by only older kids, most of whom are fellow Slytherins, you haven’t experienced any adverse effects of being in the house. Fred and George’s teasing sometimes makes you think Slytherin and Gryffindor have some kind of rivalry, but it’s mostly contained between the younger years. Seventh years are too damn busy—and too damn old—to be dealing with petty house prejudices.

“Well, yeah, [Last name], have you seen our head of house?” Benji asks, cracking a grin. “There’s something going on there. No one’s that much of an arse all the time. My personal theory is Snape’s a bloody vampire.” Colin snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’m serious! Have you ever seen him outside during the day?”

“Yeah,” you and Colin reply at the same time.

“He goes to Quidditch games, dolt,” Colin goes on.

“Only on overcast days,” Benji insists, wiggling his fingers spookily.

“I’ve seen him in full sunlight,” you remark, thinking of the way the sun slanted in through the windows of the Three Broomsticks the very first time you laid eyes on him. It was setting, sure, but it was definitely sunlight. Then you remember the events shortly following this encounter and shut your stupid mouth. 

Benji looks put out. “Well, alright then,” he says. “Snape’s questionable—but _extremely plausible—_ vampirism aside, Slytherin house has been tainted as evil for centuries.”

“Why?” you ask, frowning. What are the traits of a Slytherin? Clever and ambitious, isn’t that it? That doesn’t translate to evil. And none of the people you’ve met seem evil at all—with the possible exception of Harper. 

_Though,_ you suppose generously, glancing down the table at where the other girl sits surrounded by her group of well-dressed, haughty friends, _rich and bitchy doesn’t necessarily translate to evil either._

“Every Dark Wizard who graduated from Hogwarts was a Slytherin,” Benji says, clear pride in his tone. Not, you’re sure, because he approves of the Dark Wizarding lifestyle. Just because Benji loves any claim to fame he can get his hands on.

“That’s not that crazy,” you reply. “I mean, I have to assume we’re only talking about well-known, really infamous Dark Wizards. And of the European variety who graduated from Hogwarts, there can’t be more than five or six of them through the centuries.”

“There have been seven, since Hogwarts' founding,” Colin corrects.

“Right, seven, whatever,” you say. “But this school’s been open for, like, ever. That’s not exactly a huge percentage. And it’s not even an interesting coincidence. If a Dark Wizard rose to enough power to go down in the history books, of course he’d be ambitious. Ambition is what we do! Besides, wasn’t Merlin a Slytherin? He was a pretty damn cool guy. And Grindelwald, one of the most infamous pieces of Nazi shit in living memory, couldn’t have been Slytherin. He went to Durmstrang. There’s nothing here to really suggest that our house breeds people interested in the Dark Arts!” Benji snorts into his Pumpkin Juice at your enthusiasm. 

Wow. Where’d all this pride and school spirit suddenly come from?

“No one’s arguing with you here, [First name],” Colin says, holding up his hands in surrender. “Obviously, I’m proud to be in Slytherin. But the fact is, the Dark Arts are complicated magic. They take a lot of time, energy, secrecy, and the right kind of mind to succeed in. Just so happens, sly and ambitious is exactly the kind of mind you need. So when you say Slytherin doesn’t breed people to be interested in the Dark Arts, you’re right. It just collects the kind of people who already would be.”

“Are you two interested in the Dark Arts?” you ask the boys, leaning toward them conspiratorially. Benji and Colin glance at each other. Benji is grinning wolfishly. Colin looks hesitant.

“Who isn’t?” Benji says, and Colin facepalms. “It’s the logical next step. The last bit of magical knowledge, all shrouded in mystery. It’s interesting. Not saying I’d go super villain. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. I just want to know.” 

“I get it,” you say. “Being _drawn to the darkness."_ You say it in a purposely melodramatic tone, air-quoting like crazy. “I do. But from what I understand, that’s a slippery fucking slo—”

“How dreadful it must be, Miss [Last name], to have such a difficult time uttering a mere sentence without the use of profanity.” The deep, slow voice comes from directly behind you, and you jump, turning to see Snape standing in the aisle between the table and the windows, arms folded.

 _How dreadful it must be, Professor, to feel the need to impress everyone by using such pretentious and long-winded vocabulary,_ your mind forces to the tip of your tongue, but you swallow the words.

“Sorry, sir,” you say instead, then you turn back to Benji. “That’s a slippery _gosh-darn_ slope.”

Benji smirks, Colin chokes on his drink, and even Snape’s lip twitches. The threatening smile is quickly squashed, however, and he regards you coldly.

“If you are through with your pudding, I’ll ask you to follow me. I need to speak with you in my office.”

Your stomach sinks to a region somewhere between your kneecaps and your toes. All the desire for arch and disrespectful sarcasm goes away and you hesitate a moment, casting a _help me_ glance at the boys. Snape turns to leave, pausing when he realizes you're still in your seat.

"Today, [Last name]," he drawls.

Nodding mutely, you swing around on the bench and stand to walk after your waiting professor. Colin looks nervous for you, but Benji lets loose a low, “Ooooh...” Snape cocks him a disapproving eyebrow before sweeping away with you in tow like a shamed dog.

* * *

Snape waits until you’re out of the Great Hall and descending the stairs toward the dungeons before speaking. You’re trailing after him, looking pale and nervous. Good. The first sign of real submission to his authority. When you’re actually in trouble, for good reason, you seem to lose some of your damnable nerve.

“You were not in class today,” he tells you, slowing his pace to allow you to walk beside him as you continue down the hallway. 

“I know,” you reply hoarsely. “I didn’t…feel good.”

You can’t honestly think he’ll believe that, can you? It’s all too transparent. The reason you skipped his lesson is the same reason he himself hoped you wouldn’t be there. Neither of you want to look at each other after last night.

_And here you are, forcing an interaction._

No one says he’s not a glutton for punishment. He could have ignored you playing hooky, he certainly considered it. But he doesn’t want you thinking you have some kind of bond with him which prevents you from being disciplined when you break the rules. 

And he _can’t_ ignore the report from Filch that you were seen swimming in the Black Lake during class this afternoon. Swimming naked, apparently. Filch said your clothes were scattered along the shoreline. Snape, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the blossoming headache, told him he’d take care of it.

“Ill enough to have a swim in the lake,” he replies. He watches from the corner of his eye as you tense noticeably and turn to him with a look of horror. “You were noticed by the caretaker this afternoon. Though, perhaps fortunately for you, he did not see you until you were in the water.”

“I wasn’t skinny dipping,” you say immediately, as though that makes it any better. “I had, like, swimming attire on.”

“Be that as it may,” Snape says as you approach the iron door to his office, “you forewent my class to do so. With or without public nudity in the equation, this behavior is generally frowned upon.” He unlocks the door and leads you inside.

“I wasn’t nude!" you insist, and Snape has to quickly shut the door again to avoid any passersby hearing the outburst.

“That is hardly the issue,” he says, leaning against the door and rubbing his temples. Why do you always seem to induce a migraine? “Skipping lessons is not acceptable. Had you truly been ill, of course, it would have been appropriate to deliver yourself to the hospital wing. Under the circumstances, however…”

“Listen, professor,” you say, walking quickly up to him in an earnest sort of way.

You come within a foot—a bit too close for his liking—and reach up as if to clasp his hands. But you stop yourself, take a breath and continue. Continue, he might add, much too quickly. 

“I think we both know why I wasn’t in class today. I mean, let’s be honest, last night was really awkward and I totally made a complete fool of myself in front of you but, well, it wasn’t all my fault, really…”

How can a person’s mouth move that fast? He can hear you building up steam, moving into a rant, and he’s suddenly unable to think of anything to say. He tries anyway.

“Miss [Last name]—”

“Really, I mean, how could you have expected to just say all that awful stuff to me and not have there be any consequences? And if we’re going to do this platonic student-teacher thing, you really have to work on your body language, sir, because it was going, like, completely come-hither on me…” 

“I—”

“I know, I know you don’t think I can read you—maybe you have some kind of mystery complex—and while I have to say you’re pretty inscrutable a lot of the time…” Oh gods, he can’t stop it. The ball is rolling, and it’s moving too swiftly to catch. “...I think I know enough about human interaction—particularly male-female interaction, honestly, I’m not exactly a spring chicken...but, like, with virginity.” Snape closes his eyes, trying to remain stoic. “Anyway, I think I know enough about it to know that pressing a girl up against a wall and, like, pulling her towards you by the wrist isn’t exactly ‘get-away-from-me’ behavior. It’s actually kind of the opposite, sir, so maybe you can understand why I did what I did. Or maybe you can’t, like, maybe you’ve just compartmentalized me so thoroughly in your head that you can’t see how I might have read you wrong. But let’s be honest here, with our history that’s not exactly possible. But you have to believe me—”

“Miss [Last name].”

“I _am_ trying, sir, really. See, I’ve been calling you ‘sir’ and ‘professor’ this whole time and I haven't even cursed once…”

“Miss [Last name].”

“And I just want to say, I can continue to try, and we don’t have to avoid each other or anything because it will get easier. I just have to stop of thinking of you—”

“[First name]!” Snape snaps, holding up his hand. “Stop. Talking.” Finally your damnable mouth closes, and you flush pink.

 _Well,_ he thinks dryly. _I suppose I had my say last night. Now she’s had hers._

Granted, this is not the conversation he planned on having with you. He expected to simply give you a stern talking-to about coming to class, assign some dreadfully monotonous make-up work and send you on your way. Why didn’t he expect you to re-open this can of worms?

“As I cannot be entirely certain of your _precise_ point,” Snape continues icily, “I will address what I can.” 

Your eyes snap up to meet his, surprise therein. He supposes you didn’t expect him to respond in any way other than throwing you bodily from his office.

_And perhaps you should. Try your very best not to be a complete fool here, Severus._

“There is a chance I owe you something of an…apology for what I said to you last night,” he begins, and the shock on your face is almost worth it. _She must really think me a cold-hearted bastard._ “It was not an appropriate thing to say to a student, whether or not my opinions are valid. Explorations of your personality on my behalf are best left alone. I will...remember this in the future.”

You’re narrowing your eyes at him now, and Snape understands why. As apologies go, it’s a terrible one—complete with implied insults and a sneer.

“Do not glare at me, girl,” he says anyway. “After your behavior, you should be glad I’m not having you expelled.” You open your mouth but do not speak. “However. Apart from that rather...unfortunate scene last night, you have indeed kept your word to treat me with the respect my position as your teacher demands. As such, I had planned to strike it from the record. On the condition that it _does not happen again."_

“Oh,” you say. “Oh, okay, of course not. Won’t happen again. Thanks.”

The way you say it is a little too light. Is that disappointment, or is he just seeing something he dreads--wants—to see in your eyes?

“Good,” he replies. “Now. As to your punishment.”

“Wait, what about the record-striking and all that?” you say, and damn him if you’re not already smiling again. He’s come to hate that expression on you, the one you wear when you know you’re being cheeky or clever, simply because you look quite charming with it.

“We have stricken the occurrences of last night,” Snape explains, finally dislodging himself from the door to pace over to his desk.

He has to brush past you, which brings on a rush of fury. Who do you think you are, standing there looking pretty and worried, biting the insides of your cheek? Practically _demanding_ to be touched, held, comforted? The anger makes it easier to shove these urges down, of course. But the simple fact is that he’s never had anywhere _near_ this kind of reaction to any other student in his charge. And he does not think it bodes well.

“The matter of your unexcused absence, as well as your impromptu skinny-dipping—”

“Oh Jesus, I was _not—“_

He holds up a hand and interrupts. “These matters are still in question. Obviously, you must make up the class.”

“Obviously,” you reply with a little venom. Snape sends you a harsh glance as he bends over his desk, searching the drawers for the discipline slips.

"And you will do some extra work for me, tending to the batch of Felix Felicis over the next six months.”

You don’t give him the look of surprise and disappointment he’s going for, so Snape concludes Malkovich and Zabini have already informed you of today’s lesson.

“Oh yes, and ten points from Slytherin,” he finishes. “For the rather…indecorous display at the lake.”

“I wasn’t naked, sir.”

Why do you keep having to refer to yourself being in the nude? 

“Jumping in the lake, mid-October, is indecorous regardless of your degree of dress,” Snape replies. “Especially during my class.” He writes a few words on the paper, muttering, “My, my, twenty points from a house in less than a day. Must be some kind of record.” You have the decency to look ashamed by this.

He strides toward you, handing you a slip of paper. You take it and look down at your assignment.

“Stewing baneberries this Sunday?!” you ask, falsely incredulous. You take another look. “And _writing_ about it? Two inches! I’m sorry, sir, but doesn’t that seem harsh?” The look you send him is full of mirth. And yes, looking back, Snape thinks he might have let you off easy. But as you said, it was partially his own damn fault.

“Yes, doubtless you will be scarred by the experience,” he replies dryly.

“I might never recover,” you add, nodding thoughtfully.

“Oh I think, given time and copious therapy, you will be able to return to a relatively normal life,” Snape says.

You laugh, which jolts him back into wondering what the hell he’s doing _bantering_ with you. He clears his throat and walks as far away from you as he can, on the pretense of returning his quill to the desk drawer.

“Do not forget, however,” he says, “ that you have a standing appointment every day after my class for the next six months. It should not take long to stir and note the condition of the Felix Felicis, but it will be your responsibility to do so.” He looks you over. “Even if you'd prefer to be swimming.” You scoff good-naturedly, shaking your head and grinning at him in that charming way you have. “You missed the lesson, but I can still ensure that you learn something about the potion.”

“Sounds fine,” you say. You wait a moment before, “Am I dismissed?”

“I should say so,” Snape mutters, sitting down behind his desk. He leans back and closes his eyes, rubbing them with the thumb and forefingers of one hand. “Thoroughly.”

Again, you snort, and he hears you open the door. _Don’t say anything,_ he begs silently. Though of course, that’s quite impossible for you.

“I’ll see you on Monday, professor,” you say on your way out. “Unless the baneberries finish me off.”

Snape holds in his grunt of amusement until after you’ve closed the door behind you. Then he sinks further into his chair and begrudgingly accepts the images flooding through his brain of you swimming naked in the lake.


	10. Melting the Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little "getting to know you" before more drama. Enjoy!
> 
> And as always, thank you for the comments <3

* * *

_You don't understand me.  
_ _But if the feeling was right, you might comprehend me.  
_ _And I don't claim to understand you,  
_ _But I've been looking around, and I haven't found  
_ _Anybody like you._

"You Don't Understand Me" - The Raconteurs

* * *

Stewing baneberries is possibly the most tedious thing Snape could have ordered you to do. You spend four hours of your Sunday peeling, heating and stirring them, then another hour writing up a paragraph relaying the experience. You make your short essay particularly cheerful and overly enthusiastic in tone, hoping to annoy or tickle him when he reads about what an incredibly fascinating plant _Actaea_ is. You’re smirking as you stuff your papers back into your bag, ready for delivery tomorrow afternoon.

You’re relatively disappointed that he wasn’t there for your detention—you arrived at his office to find a brief note with instructions and a warning not to blow up his lab. You wonder if this is a usual practice of his—letting students perform their detentions without supervision—or if it’s due to who you are. It could either mean he trusts you or can’t stand to be in the same room as you.

Here you are again, thinking about it too much.

You can’t _stop_ thinking about him. You’ve gone over Friday night in your mind so many times it feels like you have every detail memorized. You finally did it, what you’ve dreaded doing since arriving at Hogwarts: a ramble. A long one this time. The words spilled out so quickly, you barely registered what you were saying. You only vaguely remember your points, but you’re sure it was embarrassing.

The image of Snape’s shrewd, pale face plays over and over in your mind’s eye, the emotions written across it—perplexion, irritation, bemusement, fatigue. But he let you off easy, gracefully glossed over your determination to humiliate yourself and sent you on your way.

And somehow, that leaves you feeling hollow. 

_What did you expect? That he’d throw himself at your feet and say, ‘Damn the risks, I can’t live without you’? It was one drunken night. Calm yourself._

But you can’t calm yourself when it comes to your Potions Master, and it’s just getting worse.

The following Monday, you stay late after lessons to begin your work on Felix Felicis. Snape seems preoccupied, buried under parchment at his desk, but he allows himself a few moments to go over your duties. The potion is extremely precise, and it will be on your head if it is messed up—so far, the class has managed a nearly perfect brew. It’s currently sitting at a bright, buttery yellow and should slowly thicken and deepen into molten gold in half a year’s time.

Snape instructs you to stir it clockwise seven times, then counterclockwise three and a half times. After that, you are to heat it to precisely 100 degrees (celsius, obviously) for three and a half minutes, stir clockwise seven more times, then lower it again to its 90 degree simmer. This, every day, for the next semester. It only takes ten minutes, but they are ten of the most focused, detail-oriented minutes of your day.

This isn’t helped by his presence. The potion is stored in his personal lab, just off his office, and it’s too temperamental to be moved much. Usually, he doesn’t hold office hours after class, and Advanced Potions Club doesn’t start until five. So most of the time it’s just the two of you there, which makes the Felix Felicis maintenance sessions feel oddly intimate.

That first day, you purposely put your back to his desk, but every shift of his clothes, every quiet sigh, every scratch of his quill makes your ears perk. The next day you face him, but then you’re distracted by his black and white figure in your periphery. On Wednesday, you shift back and forth around the cauldron so constantly you almost miss one of the clockwise stirs—indeed you would have, was Snape not watching.

“Once more, [Last name],” he drawls from his desk, sounding bored and hardly glancing up from his paperwork. Blushing, you stir once more. The potion hasn’t darkened significantly since Friday, but it’s taking on a pretty shimmering quality. It looks good. You note its condition in the ledger beside the cauldron and turn to start gathering up your things.

You bump fully into Snape, who has come up to the workstation so quietly you don’t even hear a footstep. He side-eyes you as you back away apologetically.

“It seems you haven’t destroyed it, yet,” he comments in that artfully condescending way of his. “Despite your restless flitting about, you are fairly adept at obeying simple instructions.”

“Wow,” you say dryly. “How’s that for a compliment?” Snape’s lip twitches; you almost have him smiling! “Seriously, professor, you should probably try to contain your enthusiasm. Don’t stroke my ego too much.”

The twitch grows into a tiny smirk. Well. Better than nothing.

“I should think,” he replies, arching one eyebrow, "you'd cherish _any_ compliment I gave you, Miss [Last name]. I don’t offer praise lightly. Or often.”

“Yeah, I got that impression,” you say, grinning at him. 

And for a moment, a lingering moment, his smirk widens and he smiles back.

* * *

The next few weeks go by swiftly, the trees of the Forbidden Forest deepening from green-gold to deep red. Hogwarts is buzzing with anticipatory energy as the arrival of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons draw nearer, and Snape finds it more difficult than usual to keep his younger classes focused. Many of the other teachers give up entirely in that regard, but he’s of the firm opinion that a little thing like a Triwizard Tournament should not get in the way of Potions.

He’d be lying, however, if he says he’s not mentally distracted as well. The upcoming games and the arrival of bloody Karkaroff, not to mention Moody’s presence in the castle, are more than enough to keep his mind occupied and his stress levels high. But then there’s also _you._

Perhaps putting you in charge of overseeing the Felix Felicis was a mistake. You always seem to be _around_ now. He sees your face everywhere—in class, after class, in Potions Club, in the Great Hall, in the damned corridors. It’s as if you’re a beacon for his attention.

And he can’t ignore you, can’t _not_ notice you. He finds his head turning toward you whenever your eyes flash in his periphery. Or he’ll startle and look up upon hearing your laugh across a room. He’s started to hate his reactions to you.

It’s awful. It’s terrible and awful and disgusting, and Snape hates himself, he really does. The trouble is, he can’t seem to hate you.

He’s started looking forward to those pieces of time after class is finished for the day, when you come to his office looking tired but relieved to be out. You’ll knock at his door and smile at him sweetly when he tells you to come in. You’ll push tousled strands of that thick, lovely hair out of your face and head over to the side room where you keep the potion, depositing your bookbag on the counter. Invariably, if your hair is loose, you pull it back in a messy ponytail that Snape finds inexplicably charming, and you’ll loosen your school tie and shrug out of your cloak.

He’s started allowing his eyes, if your back is turned, to roam along your pretty form for the count of three—that’s all, “one, two, three, look away.” Surely there’s no harm in that. No lascivious thoughts or lewd bodily responses—simply glancing at something objectively pleasing to the eye. No harm in it at all.

Somehow, he doesn’t know how, but somehow you always manage to read his mood. If he’s irritated, stressed or sullen, you remain silent aside from a “hi, sir” and “bye, sir,” which suits him perfectly. He despises being forced to make small talk when he’s in a foul temper.

But if he’s in a good mood, or even simply calm and relaxed, you pick up on it and talk to him. Snape can’t figure exactly how you know—he’s relatively sure he sits silently behind his desk with the same expression on his face regardless of his emotions. But you always seem to know how he’s feeling, and he likes it when you chat if he’s in the mood.

The two of you have interesting conversations—you always seemed to have something whirring about in that brain of yours, and it’s never meaningless or dull. You ask him questions about potion making at first, or you discuss the properties and theoretical mechanisms of the Felix Felicis itself. 

But lately your conversations have become longer, branching out to various topics that have nothing to do with school—ethical dilemmas in charms and transfiguration, the influences of Muggle culture on American vs. British wizardkind, archaic wizarding symbology, gods and demons or lack thereof, the tedium of Quidditch, your hobbies, Snape’s favorite ice cream. A reading list begins at some point, with both suggesting books the other might like. You actually read them, too and discuss them as you go, which Snape finds an extremely refreshing change of pace from the company he’s grown used to over the years.

Lately, your very presence in his office seems to lift Snape’s mood. Lately, the potion maintenance sessions are rarely spent in silence. Lately, indeed, your conversations are growing longer. 

More than once, with him behind his desk and you seated on a table across from him, you’ve been startled by a knock at the door which signifies the arrival of the Advanced Potions Club, having spent more than an hour in enjoyable conversation. 

It’s worrisome, and Snape should be more worried than he is. He knows that. Logically, he knows that.

But he can’t find it in himself to be. He’s not doing anything wrong—neither of you are. Your past aside, this is perfectly appropriate. And whose business is it if he enjoys this damnable girl? Is it so wrong to want the company of someone he’s coming to suspect is a kindred spirit? At the very least, someone who doesn’t irritate the hell out of him. Or you do sometimes, but when you do it’s a fond kind of exasperation.

He tells himself it’s not dangerous. The conversations keep him sane, and they keep you too preoccupied to blow up a tower and get expelled from yet another school. It’s just a pity that his hypothesis (the one which proposes that getting to know each other will lead to mutual dislike) is turning out bunk.

One afternoon a few days before Halloween, in his office after class, you ask, “Hey, Professor, do you do costumes here much?”

Snape looks up from grading papers to watch your profile. You’re lying horizontally on the work table, one leg bent to plant your foot on it, the other dangling gracefully off the edge. You toy with your wand, chewing lightly at its tip—a usual habit of yours. After the first week, Snape gave up the struggle against you lying or sitting atop his furniture.

“What?” he asks. “Costumes?”

“Yeah,” you reply, turning to smile at him, the tip of your wand still poised in an annoyingly attractive way against your bottom lip. “You know, Halloween costumes. Clown masks and devil horns and all that.”

Snape can’t help but smirk. “Not that I have noticed,” he says. You turn back to stare at the ceiling again, and he watches your full lower lip extend into a pout. He scoffs. “This disappoints you. Why? Were you planning a costume of your own?”

Against his will, Snape’s head is suddenly full of black corsets and cat ears and fishnet stockings. He blinks, clearing his thoughts forcibly, a habit he’s becoming rather good at with all this practice.

“I thought I’d go as Red Riding Hood,” you say, your mouth twitching as you stare at the ceiling. “I have the cape already from last year.”

Now the corset you wear in his mind is scarlet, complete with a matching hood and heels. Of course, you keep the fishnets. He can’t deny it’s an appealing image.

Snape rubs his eyes as if to relieve a tension headache and leans back in his chair. “Were I you,” he says, “I would go as a witch. Pointy hat, cloak…”

“Green skin, warts,” you add. 

“Precisely,” he agrees, finding this much more comfortable to imagine.

“I’ll have to work on my cackle.” You sit up groaning and swing your legs off the table as you face him, crossing them at the thighs—looking for all the world like a pinup model. “But really, would people look at me weird if I wore a bright red cape?”

“I certainly would,” Snape mutters, smiling as he bends back over the papers he’s grading just to rip his eyes away. 

You snort and hop down to stretch. “I gotta go,” you sigh. “No rest for the wicked.” And as is becoming distressingly frequent, Snape feels that queer sinking in his chest at the thought of your absence.

But he pretends not to, keeping his eyes on his papers and saying in a tone that makes clear he could not care less, “A particularly wicked agenda tonight, then?”

“Wicked is one way to put it. Alchemy homework is another,” you reply, and he smiles gently at his ink pot. You love Alchemy almost as much as Potions. You told him at one point that it makes you feel like “some mad medieval genius.”

“What fun you will have,” Snape says dryly, “red cloak or no.”

You chuckle at this, and you bend over your desk to hurriedly scrawl something onto a scrap of parchment. This you crumple up and toss at him. It bounces gently off the top of his head, and he glares up at you as you head for the door.

He points his quill at you. “More of that, [Last name], and I’ll be subtracting house points.”

You laugh, turning back to him momentarily with that sharp, clever grin. “Later, sir. Pleasure as always.” The office door closes behind you. 

“Pleasure indeed,” Snape mutters, fingering the ball of paper you tossed at him. Curiously, he uncrumples it, wondering if you actually wrote him something. 

A thrill goes through him at the sight of your script there, neat and womanly, under a drawing of two stick figures—one male and one female. The female wears a short cloak and hood, while the male is decked out with pointy ears and a sharp toothed grin.

Underneath, your note reads, _"I’ll go as Red Riding Hood if you go as the wolf."_

Snape rolls his eyes at it, at you, at this whole ridiculous _whatever this is._ He eyes the waste bin, where he knows this fanciful piece of rubbish belongs. But then, carefully, he folds up the parchment and places it in his drawer instead.


	11. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons and George Bloody Weasley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edit these chapters between Dead By Daylight games so if you see typos, please take your concerns elsewhere.
> 
> Also I love you. Have you drunk enough water today? (me neither)

* * *

_Honey, you're so cold.  
_ _You left me on patrol.  
_ _Lose my self-control with you.  
_ _Do things I don't want to do for you, you terrible thing._

"Terrible Thing" - AG

* * *

The night before Halloween, just before dinner, the entire school is called to the lawn outside the castle’s front doors. This means the cancellation of Advanced Potions Club, much to your displeasure. You’ve found a really juicy one for the group in the Restricted Section, a hackneyed invisibility brew, and you’re dying to try it. But it sounds like that will have to wait. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are arriving tonight.

Shivering in the cold Autumn air at the very back of the crowd, you bounce up and down on the balls of your feet, waiting to greet the foreign institutions. Once this is over, you’ll turn and be one of the first back into the castle—you promise yourself that. But first you have to wait or risk McGonagall’s stern glare from where she watches the crowd in the hall.

Will the schools be coming up the path? Using portkeys? Whatever it is, can they hurry the fuck up? It’s freezing out here.

“It seems both Karkaroff and Maxime will be fashionably late,” says a low voice, and you smile. “I am utterly shocked.”

You half turn to see Snape, striking in his black robes, his hands folded behind his back as he steps casually up behind you. A tiny smile plays around his broad lips.

“Do you know them?” you ask, keeping your voice low so that you can speak more or less in private. You catch Snape’s nod from the corner of your eye.

“I’ve had the pleasure,” he replies. “The mercifully rare pleasure.”

You snort. “Not great, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Snape replies dryly. “Karkaroff in particular can be…insufferable.” He glances at you, raising a black eyebrow. “Of course, you did not hear this from me.”

“Of course not,” you agree, smirking at him, and he allows himself a smile in turn. You love making him smile. 

At this moment, gasps ring out amongst the crowd, and people start pointing toward the sky. Following their gestures, you and Snape look up to see, of all things, a gargantuan carriage soaring over the trees of the forbidden forest. It’s drawn by five winged horses and loses no time in bumping down onto the field before the school.

“French or Bulgarian?” you whisper to Snape.

“Undoubtedly, extravagantly French,” he replies and gestures to where an enormous woman is now stepping out of the enormous carriage, being helped to the ground by Dumbledore. _"Voila_ Madame Maxime.”

“She’s large.”

“Full of understatements tonight, [Last name],” Snape replies.

You laugh. It’s true. The woman is gigantic, probably seven feet tall but striking in her midnight robes. She’s middle aged but undoubtedly beautiful, with large, deep-set eyes and a charmingly coy grin. You’re too far away to hear her conversation with Dumbledore, but soon Maxime, with a sweeping gesture, allows her students to file from their carriage. They are all dressed in blue silk robes, and you can’t help but snorting at their expense as they huddle around each other, shivering. They veritably race for the warmth of the castle.

As they pass, a handsome, dark haired boy catches your eye and grins. You grin back, watching him disappear inside as his friends nudge him suggestively, chattering in French.

When you glance back at Snape again, his face has grown hard. He avoids your eyes. Did your silent exchange with the French boy invoke that? Or is that wishful thinking?

You follow his eyes—he’s watching the Black Lake, where a furious bubbling has begun, just underneath the dark surface. A whirlpool forms around it, and in a matter of seconds, an enormous masted ship emerges from beneath the now tumultuous waves. Snape watches the ghostly vessel in silence, still not looking at you, as it anchors itself in the shallows and connects its gang plank with the very dock you jumped from only a few weeks ago.

Soon people file from the ship, led by a tall, shrewd-looking wizard with silver hair and a goatee. Where the French students were underdressed for the chilly fall weather, this group is over-bundled in furs and heavy robes. They are silent and serious as their headmaster leads them to land.

“Durmstrang, I presume,” you say, wanting Snape to stop looking so gloomy. “They seem like a cheerful bunch.” He finally glances at you, and his expression lightens a bit at your conspiratorial grin.

“It is shaping up to be an extremely merry year,” he replies, his lip twitching as he watches the Bulgarian students file into the castle. 

As Durmstrang passes by, a younger Slytherin boy standing in the row ahead hisses loudly to his friend, “Fucking hell! Is that Viktor Krum?" It draws a glance from Karkaroff and the student at his heel, a heavy browed, muscular guy. The name means very little to you, but Snape immediately reaches out and pushes the boy’s head forward slightly with spread fingers. The boy glances back, panics at the sight of his teacher, and makes himself small and silent.

You laugh into your hand at the fear shown to Snape as the crowd of Hogwarts students starts back into the castle, weaving around you. With your professor just behind you, you suddenly want to linger, even if it is cold. Snape, too, doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, watching his students make their way inside.

“What?” he asks lowly as you continue to laugh about how severely Snape scared the boy—he didn’t even _say_ anything, just lightly pushed the back of the boy’s head! You shake your head, laughing freely as the lawn empties around you. 

“You’re just so…intimidating!” you say, turning to him. Snape’s lips twitch.

“And yet she laughs,” he replies.

“God,” you say, laughing harder. “I’m sorry, sir…”

“Do you doubt my ability to menace, Miss [Last name]?” he asks mildly.

“No,” you say. “No, sorry, but he just…oh god, you freaked him _out."_

“It is a gift,” he says, smirking as he watches you recover from your giggle fit. “Be relieved I do not often use it on you.”

You grin, squaring your shoulders at him. “You can try,” you say challengingly.

Snape lifts an eyebrow at you, then gently touches the small of your back to nudge you in the direction of the castle. You comply, and together you make your way back inside. Snape’s hand lingers on your spine for a moment as you walk, but it soon falls away, and you regret its going.

You bring up the back of a long line filing into the Great Hall, watching the energy and excitement around you. The Hogwarts students are practically fighting each other to get at that Viktor Krum guy, asking for autographs and offering up their seats at the table. Upon asking Snape, you learn that Krum is the seeker for Bulgaria’s professional Quidditch team. You don’t follow Quidditch, but you suppose it’s a good enough reason for all the fluster among the females.

“I guess it’s exciting,” you remark to Snape, who still lingers at your side as the queue bottlenecks and slows at the doors to the Hall. “Having a celebrity here and everything.”

“Yes,” Snape says, looking like he can barely keep from rolling his eyes. “Hogwarts is full of celebrities this year, unfortunately.” 

You frown at him, wondering what he means, before suddenly putting it together. Jesus, you hadn’t even thought about that!

“Oh my god, Harry Potter _does_ go here, doesn’t he?” you ask. Snape glances at you, thoroughly unamused by the joke he thinks you’re making. “No, seriously, I totally forgot about him.” Snape’s eyebrows lift. “I mean, it’s been a busy semester, and it’s not exactly like we hang in the same circles. I don’t think I’ve even met the guy.”

“You are not missing much,” he replies, and you laugh.

“Is that allowed?” you whisper. “Talking shit about a student to another student?”

“Language, [Last name],” Snape warns. “And it is no secret that Potter and I are not the best of friends. To call myself his least favorite teacher is putting it mildly. As for my part, I have made my opinion of the boy perfectly clear, time and again.”

“Yeah, but he’s just a kid, right?” you ask, surprised by the depth of animosity in Snape’s tone. Your professor sneers—there’s something more there than simple dislike. “He’s what, a fourth year? Teenagers that age are all assholes.” He glances at you sharply for the swear, and you grimace. “Sorry. But you know what I mean. You can’t hold it against him.”

Snape pinches the bridge of his nose, looking peeved. “I assure you, I can.”

“No, but you’re an adult,” you argue, finding you’re kind of passionate about this. Thank god no one is listening in, too distracted by the foreign schools. “You’re an authority figure—as you remind me constantly. You have to rise above that kind of thing, right?”

“Is this a lecture, [Last name]?” Snape snaps, and you flinch. “My apologies, I had assumed I was the teacher here.” His eyes are fiery—he really doesn’t like Harry Potter, and he _really_ doesn’t like being called out on how fucked up that is.

“That’s exactly my point!” you say, and a girl ahead of you in line turns to look at you curiously, before spotting the professor and frowning. 

Snape reaches out and grips your arm, his thin fingers vice-like, before tugging you swiftly out of line and around a corner, into a quieter corridor. Whoa. When did this become a serious conversation?

“You are treading on extremely thin ice right now, [Last name],” Snape hisses, leaning down to meet your eye. His face is pale and furious as he stares at you, and you feel a rush of genuine fear laced with disappointment. You thought, over the last few weeks, that you’ve grown close enough that you don’t have to keep from expressing your opinion to him. You thought you could talk to him like a person, like a...

 _Friend?_ your mind hisses, and you remember how adamant he was that that isn’t the case. That hurts more than you want to admit. And as usual, the hurt manifests as anger. You can’t keep yourself from outright glaring at him.

“Well, don’t you think it’s a little ridiculous—”

“How very typical of you,” Snape interrupts, straightening as he watches your resentful eyes, “to think it your place, even your _right,_ to express your opinion on things you know _nothing_ about. I doubt you can so much as help yourself.” 

You hug yourself, red and furious. “Jesus, I didn’t mean anything by it,” you grind out between your teeth, staring at the ground. You can’t even look at him right now.

“Didn’t you?” Snape spits, and when you remain stubbornly silent, he reaches out and grabs your chin, turning your face toward him again. When your eyes lock, you let yours blatantly convey your anger. “You wish to tell me that you did _not_ just question my behavior? That you, a _student,_ did not offer unsolicited advice on how I would do better to _conduct myself?”_ He rips his hand away from your chin and sneers, disgusted. “Does it not exhaust you, Miss [Last name], to approach the world with the firm belief that _you_ are the only one with any sense in it? Is that ego of yours truly so inflated, or are you simply unable to _contain yourself?”_

You open your mouth, affronted, and feel tears prick your eyes. He’s being so mean! After how well you’ve been getting along, the shock of it is the worst thing.

“Why do you always have to make things so _personal?”_ you demand, and he has the decency to look surprised.

But you can’t wait for a response, not with the rage-tears already starting to spill. Quickly, you scoop up your bag from where it fell beside you and push past him, knocking his shoulder, probably harder than you should. But if you stay here for a second longer, you’ll be in danger of jinxing him.

You pass the Great Hall in time to see Dumbledore begin his introduction of the Triwizard Tournament, noticing Durmstrang at the Slytherin table. Benji Zabini is already deep in talks with a gorgeous Bulgarian with dark hair and full lips, but Colin waves at you when he sees you pass outside the double doors. You ignore him. You’re not hungry anymore. And you doubt you can hold off the tears for much longer.

October with Professor Snape in your life has been amazing. Too bad he had to ruin it.

You hang out in the empty common room, reading, until the first students start to come back from the feast. Not feeling the least bit ready for company, and knowing Harper and her gang are probably only a few minutes away, you grab your book and slip out again to wander the darkening halls.

The school is buzzing—students zip back and forth, whispering and cackling. A spirit is in the air—the spirit of the Triwizard Tournament—and in your present black mood, it’s really nothing but irritating.

You wander upstairs, watching stragglers from the feast hurry past, then deeper into the castle. You’ve done this occasionally over the past two months—get lost in the winding corridors, explore Hogwarts’ ever changing landscape. You’ve come to know the castle quite well.

After a while, you find an empty hallway with a stained glass window at one end and two red armchairs set before it. Lanterns glow above them, casting warm orange light over the scene. You smile. A perfect reading nook.

You take out the book you brought along and settle into a chair, sighing. The book is one that Snape recommended, but it’s a compelling enough story that it soon takes your mind from your stupid Potions Master and his stupid insults. You sink blissfully down into its words, folding yourself into a comfortable position.

When next you look up, you’re surprised to see the sky outside has grown dark, and the halls are dimmer than ever. Probably close to curfew—perhaps even past. Ah well...just a few more pages...

A movement down the hall. You close the book with a snap and sit up, peering into darkness, trying to make out the figure approaching, keeping to the shadows...

“[Last name]!”

George comes into the lamplight, grinning, his pace quickening when he sees you. You relax, sending him a genuine smile. If anyone can raise your mood, it’s one of the Weasley twins.

“Hey,” you say. He deposits his lanky frame in the chair across from you, sprawling across it.

“Wotcher, love,” he says. “Fancy seeing you here of all places.”

You regard him, a bit bemused. He’s slurring, flushed and a bit suggestive. Has he been drinking?

“What do you mean?”

“We’re right near the Gryffindor tower,” he says, smirking. “Looking for me?”

You laugh, shake your head. “Nah,” you say. “Just lucky. Where’s Fred?”

“Off with Angelina,” George replies, wrinkling his nose. “Figured I’d give them some space...for my own sanity.”

“Ah, young love,” you muse, falsely wistful.

George beams at you, then seems to remember something. He holds up a finger and digs into his cloak for a second, withdrawing out a mostly-full bottle of wine.

“I knew it,” you laugh, taking it and popping out the cork. You lift it to your lips for a swig, then hand it back to George. “Where’d you get this, Weasley?”

“Nicked it from the kitchens,” he replies, shrugging. “Seemed a good night for it.”

“Why? Celebrating something?”

“The tournament!” George exclaims, taking a drink. “Fred, Lee and I are putting in our names tomorrow. Unless...” He shakes his head, takes another drink, and hands you the bottle.

“Unless what?” you ask.

“Dumbledore’s daft rule,” George says, more scornful than you’ve ever seen him. You give him a blank look. “Not that it matters to _you,_ being of age and all.”

“I...wasn’t at the feast,” you reply, mood darkening as you remember why. George looks at you quizzically, but when you remain silent, he shrugs.

“No one under seventeen can enter,” he says. “He’s drawn an Age Line. Bloody stupid—me and Fred are of age in April.”

“That sucks,” you say, handing him the wine again. “But it makes sense—shit’s dangerous.”

“Oh, not you too, [First name],” George says dismissively. “That’s all we’ve been hearing—don’t be daft, it’s dangerous. We can handle it!”

“Fine, fine,” you say, raising your palms in defeat. “So what are you gonna do?”

George gives you a wicked grin and takes a deep pull from the bottle. “Age potion,” he says. You raise your eyebrows. “Just a drop or two. A couple months.” 

You nod skeptically, then laugh. No way that’s going to work. But you don’t want to burst his adorable little bubble. 

George watches you curiously for a few seconds before his eyes widen. “[First name]!” he says. He reaches out to grasp your hands. “You wonderful thing! You’re brilliant at Potions, yeah?”

“Well...” You know exactly what he’s getting at, and you’re hesitant.

“You can help us brew it!” George says. He squeezes your hands, beaming. “Say you will.” You sigh, shaking your head, laughing. “Ah, come on, love—I’m begging you.” 

He slides out of his chair, onto his knees before you. You giggle harder as he puts one hand on his chest as if proclaiming himself to you, the other still holding your hands tightly.

“Please, oh, please, you beautiful darling,” he says. “One little favor for your favorite twins. We’ll be forever in your debt. Here, I’ll serenade you, if you want.” 

“No,” you laugh, as that is the most horrifying thing you can imagine. George laughs and twines his fingers together with yours.

“Please,” he says. “Please, please, please...”

“Fine!” you say, laughing. ”Fine, okay, I will! Just get up.”

“Yes!” George says, delighted, and pumps a fist in the air. “You’re a bloody wonder, [First name].” He brings your hand up to his lips and lays a soft kiss on your knuckles.

 _Oh no,_ you think. _He might actually have a crush..._

George kisses your hand again, then again in rapid succession, and you bite your cheeks. You’re not sure how you feel about this...

“Weasley,” a voice calls, low and dangerous, and both of you jump, turning to the noise. You scramble to hide the wine behind you as a light flares down the hall and someone sweeps toward you. “And...[Last name].”

Severus Snape. Of fucking course.

He regards the scene before him. George on his knees in front of you, one hand still twined in yours, the last vestiges of laughter draining from both of your expressions. Snape’s face is hard and unreadable. You pull quickly away from George and narrow your eyes at your Potions Master.

“Professor,” you say coldly.

“Isn’t this...touching,” he drawls, gaze flicking back and forth between you. George scrambles backwards, landing on his ass. Snape lets you both sweat a moment before saying, “Have you any idea what time it is?”

“No, sir,” George replies in an extremely innocent tone, glancing to where you have the wine hidden. Snape doesn’t even look at him, holding your gaze, eyebrows furrowed. You try to broadcast the thought _you’re a dick_ into that smug black head of his.

“Not past curfew,” you say confidently—though honestly you’re not sure. You just want to challenge him, make him back down.

Snape stares at you for a long moment, before finally quirking his brow and putting on his mask of deep ennui. 

“Five. Minutes,” he says. “And you should both be in your respective dormitories.” He pauses, then looks at you. “You’d better run, [Last name]. You’ll have scarcely enough time as it is.”

“Will do,” you say stiffly. “Sir.”

Snape looks back and forth between you and George again, and you have to really try to keep from jinxing him. You’re glaring openly, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he simply stares for another beat, then sweeps away down the hall, black cloak billowing behind him.

“Git,” George sighs once the professor is out of earshot, pushing his mop of red hair back from his forehead. Then he grins at you. “That was close.”

“I’d better go,” you say. “Knowing him, he’s probably on his way down to the Slytherin common room right now. To intercept me when I’m inevitably late.” You hand George his wine. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Any time, love,” George replies. You stand to leave, and he calls after you. “Tomorrow, then. Great Hall. Round noon?”

“Fine,” you say, shooting a smile back at him over your shoulder. Then you jog down the darkening hallway.


	12. Halloween - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daily reminder that I love you and to wash your face before bed.

* * *

_The lengths that I will go to,  
_ _The distance in your eyes.  
_ _Oh no, I've said too much.  
_ _I set it up._

"Losing My Religion" - R.E.M.

* * *

On Halloween, Snape wakes to a castle buzzing with giddy energy. There is no class today. The Goblet of Fire is set up in the Great Hall, and older students are approaching it constantly, tossing their names in for consideration. Snape can barely keep a lid on his own disdain and so spends most of the day with his mouth firmly closed.

He keeps to his dungeons, only leaving them at lunch for a bite to eat, and he doesn’t linger in the Great Hall. Durmstrang’s headmaster is lurking about there. Having to greet him last night was bad enough, but now the man is trying to catch his eye at every opportunity. Snape is a little baffled by this. It’s not as if they’ve ever been particularly close, even while working for the Dark Lord. Karkaroff wants something from him, and it isn’t to reunite with an old friend. He avoids his eye from the opposite end of the teachers’ table, eats a bite or two of lunch and swiftly leaves the hall.

On his way back to the dungeons, Snape passes you coming up the stairs. You sweep by without even looking his way, and he stops in his tracks, a little startled. Usually you beam at him, and he’s become rather used to that, despite himself. The cold shoulder treatment, especially so blatant a display of it, is jarring. 

Are you still angry about yesterday? _Really?_ Honestly, he assumed the whole thing would blow over. That you’d regain your pride, and today the two of you would be back to normal.

He turns to watch you stride quickly over to the staircase, where you greet the Weasley twins and their friend Jordan. You smile at _them—_ open and happy to see them. Snape sneers. He doesn’t like the feeling this gives him. It infuriates him, actually.

When one of the Weasley twins pulls you into a quick hug, Snape turns around abruptly. He hurries into the dungeons, fuming.

_Why do you care about this?_

Well, what were you doing with Weasley last night? The boy was kneeling before you, clasping your hand, kissing it. Both of you were flushed, laughing. It makes him feel like something dark is writhing in his gut. He really thought you had more sense than that, to make eyes at a _Weasley._

Snape reaches his office and shuts himself inside, kneading his forehead as he puts his back to the door. _Stop,_ he admonishes himself. _Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about her._

You should not have lectured him about Potter. It was not your right, and you know nothing of the reasons behind his contempt for the boy. He was correct to remind you of your place. He _was._

Why, then, does he feel like utter shit about it?

 _Damnable girl._ You shouldn’t evoke these feelings in him. You shouldn’t evoke _anything_ in him. Your comment that he makes things too personal shouldn’t have him questioning the way he conducts discipline, nor how he interacts with Potter. 

_What the hell does_ she _know?_

Scowling, Snape launches away from his door and settles down behind his desk. He tugs a pile of ungraded papers toward him violently and tries to read.

Unfortunately, he soon notices that he isn’t so much concentrating on the words as he is making very good arguments in his head about why you are overreacting and why you have no right to be angry with him and why Weasley should not. _Touch._

“Damn,” he hisses, bending so close over an essay on frogspawn that his nose nearly touches the parchment. It’s terrible, written by a second year with only a meager grasp on grammar, and that doesn’t help his foul temper. He gives it lower marks than it probably deserves without reading the whole thing.

After handing out his third failing mark in under an hour, Snape realizes he might not be in the state of mind for grading papers. He’s a harsh teacher, yes, but a cursory glance at the title while trying to decide what he’ll say when he next sees you does not necessarily constitute an F. 

Sighing, massaging his aching temples, Snape throws down his quill in defeat. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes for a long moment before reaching into his desk drawer and withdrawing the note you wrote him only a few days before.

 _"I'll go as Red Riding Hood if you go as the wolf._ " Despite himself, Snape smiles at it. 

_You're a bloody idiot._ He immediately stops smiling and places the note back in the drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. He picks up his quill again, determined to get back to grading. 

_It’s not even blatantly flirtatious. I don’t know that she meant anything by it, and if she had, shouldn’t I be angry? Shouldn’t I be angry, anyway? It’s inappropriate. We have a history, one that should be forgotten. Any hint at this is inappropriate. How many of my other students write me notes? How many have inside jokes with me? How many can I spend hours with, wrapped in enjoyable conversation?_

Just the one. And that is bad. Because he can’t be both your friend and your authority figure. He can’t like you and discipline you. He has to choose one role, and it has to be the role of Potions Master. 

Why does that leave him feeling so hollow?

* * *

You spend most of the day with Fred, George and their friend Lee Jordan, brewing an Aging Potion. You can’t help but chuckle at the boys. You doubt this will work—Dumbledore’s too smart for their shit—but they won’t hear that. They just rib you for being a spoilsport and watch eagerly as you work over the cauldron.

It only takes a couple hours—the potion isn’t particularly complicated—before you’re corking three small vials full of it. You hand one to each of the boys.

“Take it right before,” you say. “It’ll only last about half an hour.” 

Lee and Fred laugh and celebrate, parading around the room with their vials. George pulls you into his arms and dances a jig with you, spinning you around. You pull away after a bit, a little flushed.

“Okay, children,” you say, laughing. “Settle down. And don’t you _dare_ tell _anyone_ who made you this. Snape would literally have my head."

“Wouldn’t dream of it, you wonderful angel, you,” George assures you, hugging you again.

“We know how to keep a secret, [Last name],” Lee says. He winks. “Trust us, eh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “I trust you.” You glance at the clock and pull away from George suddenly. “Shit! Gotta dash.”

You rush to grab your things, but George steps in front of you. “Where’re you off to?” he asks, a bit of concern between his brows.

“Potions stuff,” you say, dodging him and grabbing your cloak. “Felix Felicis—he’ll kill me if I’m late.”

“Snape?” asks Fred.

“You’re not going to come watch us?” George says when you get halfway to the door.

“Can’t!” you say, flying through it. “Sorry! Tell me how it goes!”

And you run to the dungeons and Snape’s office.

Upon entering, you keep your face carefully blank, not giving the tall, raven haired man sitting behind his desk more than a nod. You head immediately toward the side room where the Felix Felicis is stored. 

Wanting to limit your time in the same room as the Potions Master, you work quickly, rushing through the Felix maintenance steps. You’re not quite sure why you still feel so angry toward him, but the gut emotion isn’t fading. You can’t look at him, even as you feel his piercing gaze on your back. Looking will make the anger sharper—or worse, bring on a rush of pain at the memory of his words. Of all his words. Of his hot-and-cold nature, unfair and confusing.

You understand Snape’s conflicting emotions, of course, you do. But the fact is, he’s let you into his life and wiggled his way under your skin. Then, last night, he treated you like none of that matters. Like _you_ don’t matter to _him._

 _That’s_ where the anger comes from. _That_ is why you can barely stand to be around him right now. Maybe soon you’ll get over it, but for now— _fuck him._

You’re almost done with the Felix, thank god. Very soon, this hellish silence will be over and you can get on with your day. The Triwizard champions will be announced tonight. Maybe Fred, George or Lee will get chosen. At least it’ll be something to get your mind off your Potions Master.

As you’re jotting down a final note in the Felix Felicis journal, his deep, smooth voice cuts through your thoughts. It forces goosebumps up your spine.

“How do you do it, [Last name]?” he says, and you turn quickly to look at him, leaned back in his chair, regarding you pensively. You’re silent, waiting for him to elaborate. After a moment, Snape sighs and looks down at his desk. Then he rises slowly from his chair. “How do you manage, without saying a word, to invoke the desire to _apologize_ to you?” He scoffs, shakes his head, and places a hand on his desk to lean against it.

Your heart swells at the sight of him—black robed, casual, looking so cool and aloof even as he says things he doubtlessly finds embarrassing. 

“Maybe it’s not me,” you reply, finding you can’t help but smile a little. He raises an eyebrow at you, his face still hard. “Maybe it’s your conscience.” 

Snape rolls his eyes. “No,” he replies firmly. “I said nothing to you last night that I would not have said to any other student in my charge. It is not a matter of _conscience."_

Your heart starts to pound, your cheeks flush. What is he about to say?

Snape sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he pushes away from the desk and takes a few steps toward you. You watch him warily, wanting him to just tell you what’s on his mind.

“This is not…” he begins, then stops himself, pursing his lips and exhaling through his nose in a frustrated way. “I find it distressingly…easy to forget myself around you. I find myself saying things that perhaps I should not say.”

“I think you’ve been doing okay,” you interrupt. “Last night excluded, you’re usually really nice—”

“No, [First name], _listen,_ you damnable girl,” he says, leaning toward you, distressed and intent. Your first name sounds remarkably good formed by his lips, even if it is shortly followed by the word “damnable.” You close your mouth.

“When I say I find it easy to forget myself,” he goes on, “I am referring to _this_ conversation, _right now._ I am _not_ referring to my admonition of you last night.” Snape takes a breath, gathering himself. He speaks slowly after that, carefully. “Because despite your bafflingly delusional opinion of me, I am not _nice."_ The word is clipped. “I am not _sweet_ or _gentle._ I do not make a habit of needlessly socializing with students, much less entertain them for hours on end in my office.” He shakes his head, watching your stunned expression. “I do not know how you manage to subvert the laws I have placed on my life, but you do. And while it is not necessarily something I regret, it is also not something I was...prepared for."

You’re smiling now, his words striking you as charming, even though he’s doing everything he can to not to charm. But the fact is, he doesn’t regret your presence in his life. That feels good.

“I don’t regret it, either,” you reply, putting perhaps more meaning into the words than he is.

“But perhaps. We. _Should,"_ Snape replies, and you see the spark in his eye, the passion. All the same, his words are cold as he leans intently toward you. “As you must be aware, there are any number of reasons to keep our distance. Ethical implications notwithstanding, if I am forced into one of these _lovely_ conversations every time I assert my authority over you, then this will. Not. _Work."_

You stake a step back from him when he steps toward you, frightened by the intensity in his eyes, by the hint of sadness there. Does he _want_ this to work, then?

Snape notices your reaction and stops in his tracks, pain flashing across his eyes. He straightens, his hand going back to the bridge of his nose, and he squeezes his eyes closed as if to shut out the world.

“I can’t…help…how I feel,” you say after a long moment. Then you take a deep breath and decide _fuck it._ You could just tell him how you feel now, stop all this dancing around it. It’s not like he doesn’t _know._ “I’ve tried, over the last two months, really, to stop having the reactions I have to you...” 

But then Snape’s dark eyes snap open to meet yours, and you swallow your words. The look on his face is hard, forbidding. You realize he doesn’t want to hear a _confession._ He doesn’t want to hear that your feelings have grown into something significantly more than _friendly._

He wants to _set_ boundaries right now. Not break them.

You back down.

“My reactions to what—what you say, I mean. When I’m in trouble with you.” You shake your head, unable to help yourself. “But with you, it sometimes feels like more than just being lectured by a teacher. So it’s hard to react as if I was.”

“I _am_ your teacher, [First name],” Snape says, his tone carrying a hint of desperation. He’s searching your eyes, gaze flicking back and forth as though wanting nothing more to than to see simple acceptance of that fact. But you don’t think you’ll ever really accept it.

“I know that,” you reply, looking away from him. “I know.” You hear him sigh, feel him shift away from you, back toward his desk. You bite the inside of your cheek. You have to know: “Does this mean you don’t want to, like, you know, hang out or whatever anymore?” 

You’re referring to your conversations during Felix Felicis maintenance. His face twitches at the phrasing, but you can tell he understands.

“This is not _about_ what _I_ want,” Snape replies, frustrated. His face is pale and strained in the candlelight, his broad mouth tight. “Things in this world rarely are, a fact I’m sure you will come to accept with age.” 

You roll your eyes. You hate when he brings up how young you are, as if you’re a child with no life experience. 

He sneers back. “Or perhaps you won’t.”

“I like getting what I want,” you say firmly, taking a step toward him. “I don’t think I’ll ever grow out of that.” 

You meet his eye, letting the rest of the words— _and what I want is you—_ go unspoken. Snape senses them there nonetheless. His gaze flicks away from you immediately, which makes you smirk. _You treat me like a child, but I still manage to intimidate the hell out of you. What a conundrum that must be, Professor._

“Spoken like a true Slytherin,” Snape replies, and you grin. “A wonder the hat paused even an instant before sorting you.” He shakes his head. “Nevertheless, the use of sense and reason should generally triumph over the blind pursuit of desires. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Well, that depends,” you say, taking another step toward him. He straightens, watching you warily. “Will sense and reason still allow us to have the occasional conversation?”

Snape rubs his eyes with one hand in a long-suffering sort of way. “Are you being difficult on purpose,” he asks, “or is it simply in your nature?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” you say, stepping closer. 

Snape’s lip almost twitches into a smile. He’s still tense around the shoulders, but as much as your flirting unsettles him, you can tell a part of him likes it. Is it cruel of you to enjoy his suffering? You wonder—you frequently wonder—what he’d really do if you just kiss him and don’t let go.

You take another step toward him. Your knees bump into the front of his desk, and you watch each other over it, silent for a moment. The wooden barrier, cluttered with candles and ink pots and parchment, seems so small now, especially when you brace your hands on the edge and lean slowly over it.

“At least I’m not boring, right?” you practically purr. Snape, to his credit, manages to retain his aloof and casual behavior. Your cleavage is showing, but he doesn’t even glance down. He just snorts and rolls his eyes.

“No, Miss [Last name], you frequently make quite certain of that.” 

How does he make things sound like a compliment and an insult at once? You sigh, realizing he’s doing that freeze-out thing again, where he refuses to have any sort of reaction, no matter what you do or say. You dislike it when he does that. You’d much rather see passion boil over, even if it is anger.

You straighten, giving up the mild seduction act, and fold your arms. “Listen,” you say, “the fact is, I enjoy the conversations we have.” You watch his face for any flicker of emotion—pleasure, disgust, concern—but get nothing. He’s completely frosted over, withdrawn emotionally. That could either mean he’s extremely bored or in absolute turmoil. You hope the latter. “I enjoy your company, to be frank, and I feel like I’d be so bored half the time if I lost it. So can we make a deal?” 

There’s a moment of silence. Then, finally, one of Snape’s black eyebrows raises.

“Your terms?” he asks dryly. You laugh at the formality of it, and he allows himself to smirk.

“You stop worrying so much about your little ‘life-laws’,” you say, air-quoting. Snape’s expression darkens, so you rectify hurriedly. “Concerning conversations with me, I mean, during Felix sessions. No need to abandon all your principles right away.” You smile—you can’t help yourself. “We’ll work on that part.” 

Snape scoffs, but you can tell he’s genuinely amused. “And you?” he asks.

“Me?”

“Yes,” Snape says. “If I am expected to make this rather egregious concession, shouldn’t you owe me something in return?”

“Oh, I was thinking you could just, like, call in a favor anytime,” you reply, smirking. “You know, an IOU. Need someone to organize your ingredients? I’m there. Hell, I’ll get down on my knees and scrub your flagstones just to talk to you like a person for an hour.” Your tone drips insinuation. “I’m a very thorough scrubber.”

“[Last name]…” Snape warns, clearly trying not to smile. 

“No, sorry,” you say. “Really, I’ll stop taking things so personally. I’ll keep in mind that you’re my teacher first. I’ll respect that.” You’ve promised that before, of course. But it’s all you have to offer.

“What a disorienting sense of _deja vu,”_ Snape mutters, sinking down into his chair.

You laugh. “Really,” you say. “This time I mean it.”


	13. Halloween - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sitting here looking at Snape fanart and photoshopped pictures from the movies so he actually looks 34 instead of 60 (see my profile pic). How is Snape this fuCKING HOT?????
> 
> Uh yeah there's some stuff in this chapter that belongs word for word to JKR, but honestly she's garbage so you can just pretend I wrote it :)
> 
> This Halloween, I'm going as a Hogwarts student who's way too old to be a Hogwarts student. What are you guys dressing up as? Please tell me your costumes in the comments below. I demand it.
> 
> Also, I promise, things start to get spicy VERY soon <3
> 
> Love you all. Take your vitamins.

* * *

_Every whisper  
_ _Of every waking hour  
_ _I'm choosing my confessions,  
_ _Trying to keep an eye on you._

"Losing My Religion" - R.E.M.

* * *

_And so,_ Snape thinks as he prepares for dinner that night, _yet again, that damnable girl has gotten her way._ You won’t allow him to be rid of you. You’ll still talk, laugh together, get to know each other. The prospect fills him with a mix of emotions, none of which he’s particularly comfortable with. He can’t shake the feeling that this situation is getting more and more out of control, despite his efforts to contain it.

But as he makes his way through the corridors, Snape finds he’s more focused on what you said than on the terrible possibilities.

You made your interest in him so clear tonight. Yes, of course you usually do flirt and grin and smolder, but that’s simply how you are. This was different—intent and full of meaning. The words you used—”just to talk to you like a person for an hour,” “I like getting what I want” and even just “I enjoy your company.” It’s not simply your individual brand of charm. It seems genuine.

 _Of course it’s not genuine,_ that cynical voice at the back of his head hisses. _She’s after something. Why would a girl like her be interested in a man like you?_

Snape squashes that voice. _A girl like her_. As if you’re anything particularly special at all...

But the voice has a point. It’s clear that you belong in Slytherin house. You have a cunning streak. There are any number of ulterior motives which have nothing to do with fostering a simple friendship with him. Shining grades, for example, or leniency in the face of rule-breaking. Are you really that stupid, to think he’ll fall for it?

Snape doesn’t think so. But this is exactly the kind of thing he avoids by never befriending students.

The Great Hall is packed and noisy when Snape slips in through a service door, sticking to the shadows in an effort to avoid Karkaroff’s eye. He’s not sure why he bothers. Everyone’s hallowed attention is focused on the glowing blue Goblet standing before the headmaster’s chair. A merciful distraction.

Ludo Bagman and Bartemius Crouch, the two from the Ministry, are seated at the professor’s table near the other guests. He’d thus far utterly failed to acknowledge their presence in the castle and wonders if that will be construed as rude. More likely, it’ll be ignored, not that he particularly cares.

The Halloween feast drags on. Snape’s eyes are drawn again and again to the Slytherin table, searching you out with idle precision. He’ll find you, then look decidedly in the opposite direction (clever choice) and focus on some tiny detail in the Hall—the flickering flame of a floating jack o’lantern, the wing of an animated paper bat, the leg of lamb on the table...the hair of the girl at the Slytherin table. The girl laughing and talking with Benji Zabini. The girl wearing an absolutely ludicrous red cloak and managing to look oddly charming in it. The girl with her lips struck red to match...My lord, look at Flitwick’s singing skulls over there, how absolutely fucking _fascinating._

Snape rubs his temples, a headache mounting. He barely touches his plate or speaks, brushing off any conversation. Not that there is much cast his way. There are perks to being relatively hermetic, especially on a night like this, brimming with anticipation.

Finally, after the plates have cleared themselves, Dumbledore rises. "Well, the Goblet is almost ready to make its decision," he announces. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber,” indicating the door behind the staff table, "where they will be receiving their first instructions."

With a wave of his wand, the headmaster plunges the room into darkness broken only by the flickering jack o’lanterns. Snape glances toward you again, your rapt face caught in the glow of a candle on the table in front of you. You look uncannily lovely, mystical somehow, your wide eyes drawn unwavering to the Goblet of Fire. In that moment, Snape can’t care less who the champions are.

But he’s destined to find out. After a moment, the Goblet sparks and spits out a name, which Dumbledore reads in a clear, strong voice.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he says, “will be Viktor Krum.”

The Hall erupts, sending a deep surge of irritation through Snape—though he’d expected the noise. He allows the Quidditch player a halfhearted round of applause before deciding the boy is receiving quite enough as it is.

Dumbledore announces the champion for Beauxbatons—a waifish girl with more than a little Veela in her named Fleur Delacour—and Snape watches with amusement as the remaining French students do very little to hide their disappointment.

He takes a moment to wonder who he hopes will be the Hogwarts champion. He hasn’t really thought about it. A Slytherin would be nice, he supposes, but for some reason he finds he’s really rooting for Advanced Potions’ only Gryffindor, Finnegan Grimsby. The boy is smart enough, and brave. He’d do the school proud. Snape suddenly regrets not telling the boy this before tonight. Gods, he’s been so distracted... 

But Finnegan Grimsby is not the Hogwarts champion, so it doesn’t matter anyway. A few minutes later, Dumbledore announces that a sixth year Hufflepuff named Cedric Diggory has claimed that honor.

Well, it’s over. Snape’s fingers start to twitch as he waits impatiently for Dumbledore to finish his speech so they can brief the champions and he can go to bed.

“I am sure I can count upon all of you,” the headmaster is saying, “including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real—"

He suddenly stops speaking. Snape’s eyes shoot up to see what distracted him, and a deep feeling of foreboding blossoms in his gut.

The fire in the Goblet has just turned red again. Sparks fly out of it, followed by another, a _fourth,_ piece of parchment.

_How?_

Automatically, it seems, Dumbledore reaches out a long hand and seizes the parchment. You could hear a pin drop in the long silence that follows. The headmaster’s bright blue eyes fix on the name there, and in the instant before he announces it, Snape has a bad feeling he already knows exactly what it will say.

"Harry Potter."

An audible gasp ripples through the Great Hall. Snape places his head in his hands, the picture of defeat. Of course. The boy could scarcely fucking _help himself._

Now, _how_ did he help himself? That’s an altogether more difficult, and more fascinating, question. It should not be possible. Not, at least, for a fourth year as utterly mediocre at spellcasting as Potter. 

The boy’s quest for fame, however, knows no bounds. As Potter slowly makes his way up the aisles, doubtlessly basking in the attention, Snape climbs slowly to his feet. Dumbledore looks grim, perhaps concerned, though it’s too much to hope for that his faith in the boy is shaken. Doubtless, he immediately assumes Potter is in some grave danger, instead of the foolhardy idiot Snape knows the boy to be.

Potter disappears into the champion’s chamber, followed immediately Bagman, and Snape looks to the headmaster again. Sighing, Dumbledore motions for him and McGonagall. Crouch, Karkaroff and Maxime rise as well, and together the group makes their way after the boy.

* * *

No one is sleeping tonight. All you want to do is slip into bed and drift off, but first the Advanced Potions group gathers outside the Great Hall to discuss Harry Potter being named a champion, then Colin and Benji keep you in the Slytherin common room for another hour (discussing Harry Potter being named a champion), _then_ Harper, Valeria and Merryweather talk loudly until past midnight in your dorm _(also_ discussing Harry Potter being named a champion.)

You lie in bed, listening to their stupid chatter and gritting your teeth. To be fair, this Potter kid seems like a real piece of work, figuring out how to get his name into the Goblet. Maybe Snape has some very good reasons for hating him. Then again, you’re already tired of all of this. Is this how the rest of the year is going to be?

Harper and the twins are not shutting up. You contemplate a good Petrificus Totalus, then decide that’s too much work. Instead, you climb out of bed, slip back into your Red Riding Hood dress because it’s the closest thing nearby, and silently leave the dormitory. Harper says something derogatory as you close the door, but you ignore it. You don’t have the energy for their shit.

Your plan is to sink into a chair in the common room and read until you can’t keep your eyes open. But as soon as you enter, you know that’s not going to happen. It’s crowded with students, all buzzing about the fucking Goblet and fucking Potter. Every chair is taken, and Benji and Colin still sit by the window, deep in talks. Avoiding them, you leave the common room.

It’s past midnight on Halloween, and you know you’ll get reprimanded if you get caught, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You have to get a bit of peace or you’ll go crazy. So you steal down the darkened dungeon corridors, planning to visit the kitchens—Fred and George showed you a painting of a bowl of fruit a few weeks ago and said it leads directly to the scullery if you tickle the pear. They said the house elves are always willing to feed you, and you could really go for a butterbeer...or something stronger.

A lot has happened today. You feel—though you know you probably shouldn’t—that you’ve made some kind of breakthrough with Snape. It feels like his walls have lowered. He admitted, in a roundabout way, that he enjoys your time together. Is it reading too much into it to think he might return your feelings to an extent?

You check yourself, terminating that thought in its genesis. Thinking that way will only get your hopes up. He didn’t say anything concrete. Really, all he did was imply that he does not actively despise spending time around you. _Which, that’s a start, I guess._

Why the hell are you so hung up on this man, anyway? Even if he does let the distance between you slide away, any ensuing relationship wouldn’t be good for either of you. It would have to be secret, at least until you leave school, and that would be insanely stressful. Is it really worth it to even entertain the prospect?

Vivid memories of Snape—his hands on your body, his breath in your ear, his tongue against you skin—flash through you. You flush, stopping in your tracks. Oh yes. God, yes. Entertaining the prospect is more than worth it. Hoping for it, though, will almost certainly be fruitless.

Speaking of fruit, you glance up to check your surroundings. You haven’t really been thinking about where you’re going, trusting your feet to take you toward the kitchen. They haven’t. This corridor is empty and dark. You’re still in the dungeons. And up ahead on the right is the door to Snape’s office.

 _I'm such an idiot,_ you admonish yourself, staring at the door. The light is on behind it—you can see it spilling out the crack underneath. It’s nearly one AM, and he’s still awake.

 _I have to get out of here,_ you think, picturing what will happen if he opens the door to see you. _He’ll be so creeped out. He’ll never speak to me again. He’ll think I’m fucking obsessed with him, and how would I explain? No, sir, I’m not, like,_ stalking _you—I came here on instinct. You drew me here because I am a masochist with a raging fucking crush on you._

That probably wouldn’t go very well. But it’s funny, for some reason you stay there, hovering on the edge of action. You’re ready to sprint off in the opposite direction if you so much as hear a footfall, but until you do, you watch the crack under Snape’s door. There’s something comforting about being so close to him.

_Ugh, maybe I am a creep._

Okay, enough. You don’t need to stand here pining like some lovesick twelve year old. You’re a grown goddamn woman. Squaring your shoulders, you force your feet to move, striding quickly past the door and down the hall as if you’re just passing by. The next corner is in sight— _so close—_ when Snape’s office door creaks open, and you hear his low silky voice.

“[Last name],” he says, a warning in his tone. You halt immediately, sigh and turn to face him. He stands in the light from his office, arms folded, one eyebrow quirked. 

“Hi, sir,” you chirp lightly, casually, as if nothing is the matter and you’re not doing anything wrong. Snape’s glittering black eyes are steady and unimpressed.

“Tell me,” he says, “what time is it?”

“Around one in the morning,” you reply without a hint of abashment.

“Yes,” Snape says. “And what time is curfew?”

You think for a second. “You know, honestly, I’m not even sure,” you say. “Maybe like ten? Eleven?” Snape’s eyes close briefly in irritation.

“And this doesn’t strike you as a contradiction?” he replies. 

“Have you been in the dorms tonight, Prof?” you ask.

“Typically I avoid them,” Snape says. “Like the plague.”

“Well, tonight they’re worse than usual,” you reply, approaching him. “The noise alone…But people won’t shut up about your favorite fourth year and his rise to glory. Just on and on. Theories, complaints, hopes, dreams, blah blah blah blah _blah!_ If I didn’t get some peace and quiet, I literally would have been driven insane, and then you would’ve lost your best Potions student.” 

“What does Mr. Zimmer have to do with _you_ being driven insane?” Snape asks, smirking. You roll your eyes, though it’s probably true—Terrance Zimmer is an absolute genius at Potions.

“Your _favorite_ potions student, then,” you say, and you’re gratified when Snape doesn’t correct you. He scoffs, but he doesn’t correct. Ten points to [First name]. “Anyway, who would stir your Felix Felicis if I was institutionalized?” you go on. “I doubt you’d want to do it yourself. It can get pretty grueling.”

“I’m sure,” Snape says flatly. There’s a moment of silence as he doubtlessly considers your fate. Then he sighs and steps away from the door, motioning you into his office. 

Surprised, you immediately scoot past him. Low light flickers from the fireplace and candles in every corner, giving the space a muted, intimate feeling. You bite your cheek, watching Snape. What exactly does he want?

He pauses with his back to you after closing the door, and he sighs like he’s wondering the same things. You’re comforted by the idea that he’s feeling just out of sorts as you are. Inviting a student, particularly a female student, into his private office after curfew? This has to be breaking some kind of rule. With your mutual respect and burgeoning friendship, exactly how inappropriate is this?

You decide you don’t care. Of all the people in the castle, you want to discuss tonight’s events with Severus Snape the most. 

Once you’re inside his office, you head immediately to what you consider “your” table near the sideroom where you keep the Felix Felicis. You hop up to sit on it. When Snape turns around to face you, grin at him.

Surprisingly, one corner of his mouth turns up in a small smile. He folds his arms and leans back against the door...and stumbles a little?

He recovers gracefully, but there’s definitely an off-balance moment there. Looking around, you quickly discover why: a bottle of what proudly proclaims itself “Campbell’s Finest Old Whiskey” stands open on Snape’s desk beside a half-full glass.

Huh. You are, of course, aware the eminent professor drinks, but to keep a bottle in his desk? Whiskey too. Not bad. And judging by the level of deep amber liquid in the bottle, he’s had quite a bit of it tonight.

Smiling, you raise an eyebrow at Snape and nod toward the alcohol, wondering how much he’ll let you get away with. In for a penny, you figure.

He sighs, pacing toward his desk. “It’s been...a long night,” he explains, picking up his glass again and all but falling into his chair. 

You fold your legs underneath yourself, watching him expectantly. It’s remarkable how quickly this whole situation shifts into feeling normal—apart from the low, intimate lighting (and the whiskey) this could be one of your regular talks after Felix Felicis maintenance. 

You realize with a jolt that you’re about as comfortable around Snape as you are around Colin and Benji, your two best friends here. Certainly more comfortable than around Fred and George. 

“Can I have some?” you ask, motioning to the whiskey. 

Snape raises a skeptical eyebrow, then rolls his eyes and withdraws another glass from a desk drawer. He places it next to the bottle, ready for you. Smiling, you hop off your table to pour yourself a small shot, not wanting to look greedy. Snape rolls his eyes again as you cap the bottle.

“If you’re going to drink my whiskey,” he says, reaching for your cup with his long hands, “you might as well have a proper glass.” 

He pours you another generous glug, movements loose and casual. You giggle. He’s drunk. He’s hiding it fairly well, but you can tell. Not sloppy, slur-your-words drunk—relaxed, who-gives-a-shit drunk.

You take a sip of the whiskey. It’s undeniably smooth, though you do end up squinting at the strength. You scootch back up onto your table. Snape watches you thoughtfully, his glass dangling between his graceful fingers. 

Your heart thuds a little harder. He looks very cool right now—his long body draped against the chair, his straight black hair framing his face, the gleam of his clever eyes. Like some kind of gothy rock star. Or given the high-collared black suit and all those buttons, maybe some tortured Victorian poet. Edgar Allan Poe’s hot younger brother. You feel your cheeks grow warm and remind yourself firmly that he’s not nearly as cool as all that.

 _Maybe he’s not a Weird Sister,_ the voice at the back of your head whispers, _but god, I really like him._

And here you are, sharing a drink with him in his private office. He’s already quite drunk, and not only looking good, but looking relaxed. You have to be careful not to take advantage of this. You won’t, you promise yourself. Or you’ll try not to. The more whiskey you have, the harder that promise might be to keep.

This could be trouble. Trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with C and that stands for crush.


	14. Campbell's Finest Old Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
> 
> YOU GUYS! The lovely DeathEaterHousewife made me FAN ART!! AAAAAHHH!!!
> 
> Picture is below.
> 
> Link: https://imgur.com/a/U8JO6MH
> 
> It's inspired by the "I'll go as Red Riding Hood if you go as the wolf" note. And. it. is SO fucking cute and sweet. I absolutely love it. Thank you so much DEH!! 
> 
> In honor of that and the fact that it is currently the most wonderful day of the year, here is an extra long chapter. With a little drama. And a little angst. And a little spice. ;)
> 
> I love you all so much. Let your hair down tonight and have fun. Just be safe!

* * *

_Consider this.  
_ _Consider this the hint of the century.  
_ _Consider this the slip that brought me to my knees, failed.  
_ _What if all these fantasies  
_ _Come flailing around?_

"Losing My Religion" - R.E.M.

* * *

This is trouble. Hadn’t you, literally _hours ago,_ discussed maintaining a more professional relationship? And here you are, drinking strong whiskey in his office, looking for all the world like a pinup model atop the desk opposite. Or a dame from 40’s noir. A classic beauty with more than a touch of sex appeal.

Snape is having a hard time keeping his eyes off your legs—the drunken bastards seem drawn to them—and he’s fairly sure you can tell. The way they’re folded beneath you, the shapely curves of your calves and thighs...

He forces himself to look at your face—though, of course, that’s just as lovely.

The only objectively good thing about your arrival here is that it’s distracting him from thoughts of Lily Evans. It’s Halloween night, after all. The anniversary of her death. He dreads the end of the day every year, when the festivities and distractions are over and it’s just Snape alone with his thoughts and regrets.

So when he opened his office door and saw your treacherous little form about to disappear down the hallway...he couldn’t help himself. He had to call you to him.

It’s not lost on him how intimate this setting seems—the candle lit room, your short dress, his casual attire, the glasses of whiskey. You share a smile as this thought seems to pass between you. Your eyes go sly and hooded, an expression he knows well—your look when you’re pleased with your own wickedness.

 _Say something,_ he hisses at himself. _Something utterly dry. Something that could not be mistaken as flirtatious, no matter how she spins it._ So he chooses the least sexy thing he can think of.

“So, Miss [Last name],” he says, horrified to hear his voice is low and thick, balancing precariously on the edge of a drunken slur, “how did you enjoy your first Halloween feast at Hogwarts?”

You scoff. “It was, uh…interesting.”

“Indeed.” A distinct bitterness creeps into Snape’s tone as he realizes he might have done too good a job with the unsexiness. He’s suddenly quite annoyed. “A more eventful evening, I could not have hoped for.”

“What happened after?” you ask, suddenly eager. When you lean toward him, your eyes flash, as does the hint of cleavage at your rather low-cut neckline. You’re wearing a red wrap dress—doubtlessly part of your Little Red Riding Hood costume—which does nothing to conceal your curves or your legs. Snape imagines pulling apart the ribbon at your side, unwrapping you like a present...

_Stop that._

“What happened after when?” he asks, trying to sound bored. You shoot him a flat look.

“After Potter got chosen,” you say. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Snape repeats, his lip curling. 

And it is obvious, perhaps, but he’s surprised by the question nonetheless. Despite inwardly screaming at himself, his thoughts are nowhere near the Triwizard Tournament or Potter. They’re on your damnable legs.

“Hmm,” he muses, his foggy mind struggling to stay afloat and on topic. He raises an eyebrow at you. “That strikes me as privileged information, [Last name].”

“What can I say?” you reply, sipping your drink. “I’m nosey.” Snape gives you a hard look, silent. “I won’t say a word to anyone,” you promise. “Not even Benji or Colin.”

“And _Weasley?”_ Snape shoots back, and it seems to throw you off.

“Fred and George?” You laugh. “Even less likely.”

Snape restrains himself from asking whether you’re romantically involved with either of the twins, though he wants to know. Even in his current inebriation, he knows that’s a dangerous question whatever your answer is. He merely scoffs and raises an eyebrow.

“It’ll be our little secret,” you promise him after a moment. “Cross my heart.” You do the gesture, clearly trying to look adorable—arching your back to bring attention to your chest, puffing out your lower lip in a little pout. It’s annoyingly effective.

“You are a terrible flirt,” Snape mutters, irritated, and the words are out of his mouth before he can edit them. But you just laugh.

“Nosey _and_ a flirt,” you concede. “I don’t think anyone would argue. But I save this kind of treatment just for you.” You raise your eyebrows at him, and he scoffs. “So? Do I get any information for my efforts?”

Snape sighs. “I don’t know why you insist on darkening my mood.”

“Hey, you’re the one who brought up the feast,” you say. “And I’m curious.”

“Fine,” he replies. In lieu of a direct answer, he leans back in his chair and takes a long glug of his whiskey, then leans forward and refills his glass.

“That bad, huh?” you ask, smiling.

“You’ve no idea,” he replies, drinking again. “Apparently, as per the rules of the tournament, if a name is spewed from the bowels that god-forsaken Goblet, the bearer of the name is obligated to participate in the games. No ‘ducking out,’ as that Bagman prat puts it.”

“Ludo Bagman?” you ask, clearly having heard the name before—the man is relatively famous from his days as a Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps. 

“The very same,” Snape replies. “Head of the Department of Magical Games at the Ministry, though why Fudge would assign him head of anything is beyond me.”

“Cornelius Fudge,” you say, making sure you’re keeping up. “The…”

“Minister for Magic, yes,” Snape says briskly, already moving on. “At first, Karkaroff and Maxime blamed the headmaster for Potter’s inclusion—implied that Hogwarts was attempting to cheat in these ridiculous games. Of course, no one can be blamed but Potter himself.”

“So he _did_ put his own name in?” you ask. “How’d he fool the Age Line?”

“Potter denies it,” Snape says, rolling his eyes. “But that boy has been crossing lines since he arrived here in his first year. His determination to break rules, and to make a name for himself, knows no bounds.”

“But _how?"_ you ask. Snape blinks at you, frowning. 

“He doubtlessly paid an older student to sneak his name into the—”

But you’re already shaking your head. “Even if that is the case,” you say, your brow furrowed as the wheels in your head turn faster, “how the hell did he trick the Goblet into giving us four names instead of three?” You meet Snape’s eye, and he’s speechless for the first time tonight. At his stunned silence, you go on, “I mean, that’s a powerful magical artifact, the Goblet. Not easy to lay a curse on, much less one strong enough to confuse it…I suppose he entered his name under a different school, but even then…maybe he used a really juicy Obliviate? Made it forget only three schools were supposed to compete…”

“Confundus,” Snape says, staring at you.

“What?” you ask.

“Moody agrees with you,” Snape says. “Though he believes a Confundus charm was used. An especially powerful one.” 

He’s feeling a strange emotion for you just now, an emotion he rarely feels for anyone. Something like admiration and jealousy and longing, all wrapped into one. At the time, discussing Potter with Dumbledore and the other faculty, Snape didn’t even consider that the Goblet had to have been charmed. But you—brilliant, damnable girl—have spied the problem instantly. After drinking an entire glass of whiskey, nonetheless.

“How remarkable…” Snape says, looking away from you and stopping himself before the entire phrase comes out— _How remarkable you are, Miss [Last name]._

“[First name] [Last name], plucky kid detective, is on the case,” you reply, smirking. 

“Evidently,” Snape says.

“So, but you still think it’s Potter?” At the look on Snape’s face—which must be unpleasant—you add, “I’m not questioning your judgment, I’m just wondering what your thought process is.”

“I am…frustrated,” Snape says candidly. “I would very much like to _think_ Potter put his own name in the Goblet, and it’s not simply that I despise the stupid boy. Because if he did not—if his name was added by someone else, as Dumbledore and Moody seem convinced—chances are good that there is a sinister plot to put the boy in danger. And I am…” He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. “Utterly. Sick. Of _rescuing_ Harry Potter.” 

Only with a few drinks in his system, and perhaps only to you, could he admit something like this. He takes a deep breath, and more words are spilling out of his mouth before he has time to catch hold of and examine him. 

“That boy has been nothing but trouble for the past three-odd years. And yes, forces beyond his control were often at work to capture or kill him—”

“Wait, seriously?” you say. You are promptly ignored, and you use the opportunity to refill your glass of whiskey before returning to your perch.

“But keeping him from harm,” Snape continues, taking a long sip of his own drink, “keeping a bloody _eye_ on him would have been so much easier had he simply followed instructions and kept his god-forsaken nose clean! I never would have had to rescue him from a cursed broomstick, for instance, had he stayed on the ground as first years are ordered to do.” He catches sight of your surprised expression. “Oh, that’s the least of it, [Last name], you’ve no idea. In the same semester, he chased down an adult troll and attempted to steal a powerful magical artefact from the headmaster. To _protect_ it, of course, the boy is so bloody _noble._

“The following year was a quiet one for Potter and his gang—they did quite a bit of thieving and sneaking about, but there were no active murder attempts against them. Though, of course, they did release a bloody basilisk into the school, and a few students were petrified. I went through dozens of mandrakes for that Restorative Draught.”

“What the fuck…” you mutter. Snape throws you an amused look.

“Do not interrupt, [Last name], I have yet to finish,” he says. “Last year, Hogwarts was host to a plethora of questionable characters, all of whom buzzed around Potter like a swarm of carrion flies. In the same night, I defended three children from a werewolf, attempted to capture a murderer and was subsequently rendered unconscious. And this was after the hellish semesters preceding it. Not to mention the dementors…”

“Dementors?” you ask, sounding skeptical. “Because of Potter?”

“As ridiculous as it sounds,” Snape says, rubbing the bridge of his nose to stave off the burgeoning headache, “that was, indeed, the case. An old friend of Potter’s father escaped from Azkaban and pursued the boy here. Sirius Black.”

“Holy shit,” you hiss, nearly spilling your drink. “The serial killer?” 

A deep, cold hatred settles in Snape’s chest at the thought of Black, and his mood darkens considerably. He nods.

“The man who betrayed…” _Lily, he betrayed Lily, he got her killed, killed her, killed Lily_ “...Betrayed Potter’s parents to the Dark Lord.”

Snape swallows hard, averting his eyes from you. He hears the strain in his own voice, the waiver of emotion he thought he’d suppressed over the past twelve years. 

Thirteen years tonight.

You’re staring at him, trying to decipher his face, his tone—neither of which are as guarded as he hopes. He’s suddenly very aware of how drunk he is, and how exacerbated his emotions are because of it. Bizarrely, given that he hasn’t cried in years, Snape feels actual bloody _tears_ spring to his eyes.

Damn you, Campbell’s Finest!

He kneads the bridge of his nose in a furtive effort to wipe away any moisture in his tear ducts. Why did he even bring this up? The anniversary of Lily’s death is always painful, but he should stuff it down. Especially in the company of a girl who inexplicably brings out the emotive side in him.

Snape groans at himself, frustrated, and kneads his forehead.

“Oh…” you say softly, concerned, and suddenly you’re clambering off your perch, approaching him, reaching out to him. Gods, he must look really upset. 

He throws out a hand to stave you off, not wanting your pity, but you bypass it as if it means nothing. You come to hover at his side. And (damn it all!) the urge to cry grows stronger, as it will sometimes when someone close to you is asking what’s wrong. _This damnable girl!_

Hating himself, embarrassed, Snape covers his eyes with one hand and sits rigid, his lips pressed tight. He breathes deeply through his nose, fighting back that wave of sadness and regret, feeling your presence beside him, too close, too warm. He sincerely hopes you won’t reach out to touch him, because if you do he fears the dam will break and everything will spill out—his sadness, his self-hatred, his desire for you. But at the same time, he wants to feel you against him so badly, it’s almost painful.

His hand is still raised to fend you off, and after a long moment he feels you wrap your fingers around it—testing, wondering if he’ll pull away. When he doesn’t, when he remains still and rigid as stone, your fingers slowly slide between his. It’s a good fit. Your hands lock together like puzzle pieces, and Snape wonders if there’s some kind of sign in that. Your skin is warm, soft, womanly.

Another moment later, he feels you pull at the hand covering his eyes, and he reluctantly allows you to remove it. Your gazes lock as you lace the fingers of that hand as well, and now you’re just standing before him, holding both his hands, waiting for him to speak. Inviting him to.

He looks away from you. For a lingering moment, he concentrates on your soft skin, the black polish on your nails, and almost feels like he’s drawing strength from your touch. The urge to tell you everything is scarily persuasive, and his foggy mind makes it seem like a scarily logical thing to do.

“You knew them,” you say gently. It’s not a question. 

But instead of the relief he might feel that you’d known this without asking, a wonderful, empowering anger blooms in him. How _dare_ you pry, make inferences? How _dare_ you poke and prod into his secrets? 

He grunts, ripping his hands from yours, his face suddenly vicious.

“My past is none of your business,” he says harshly, watching the flicker of hurt and surprise in your eyes. You step back, startled, and he hears himself speaking as though across a vast expanse. “Who do you think you are, [Last name]? Do you think yourself my confidante? Do you think us _friends?"_ He sneers, watching the shock in your eyes slowly turn to anger. “That ego of yours knows no bounds.”

“Oh, not this shit again,” you snap back, silencing him. “My _ego?_ Don’t flatter yourself, _sir._ We spend hours together _every day._ I’ve gotten to know you pretty well. And in case you hadn’t noticed, we happen to get along. You like me, even if you won’t admit it, and I like you. So if I’m not your _friend,_ what the hell am I?” Snape can’t answer that question, and you both know it. “Besides, you’re the one who brought up Potter’s parents. You clearly want to talk about it, and you probably don’t get many opportunities, so just talk to me!” 

You slide up to sit on his desktop, crossing your legs and arms in tandem, the very picture of determination. And for a moment, Snape is truly tempted. You’re right—opportunities to talk about Lily are rare. Nonexistent, in fact. Besides Dumbledore, not a single living soul knows. And he rarely waxes melancholy or wistful to the headmaster. The night she died aside, he hasn’t spoken of Lily to Dumbledore except in vague pronouns. Hasn’t expressed the depth of his regret or anger or how much he misses her. 

It might be nice, his drunken brain insists, to tell the whole story. To rant and rave and cry and finally collapse into a shuddering heap in your damnable arms. You’re inviting him to. You even _want_ him to, and not simply out of curiosity. You want to listen for his sake, _Snape’s_ sake, for his comfort and peace of mind. Because you think, foolish and naive as you are, that you can _help_ him. _Him!_

And then the truth of the matter settles in, and Snape’s eyes empty of feeling. Because nothing can help him. Nothing can change the past, and nothing can salve his guilt and regret concerning it. Lily Evans is his burden to bear for the rest of his life, and he deserves the punishment. Gods know he does. So attempting to find comfort in this girl is not only irresponsible and unethical, it is immoral.

Severus Snape does not _deserve_ comfort. Severus Snape has exactly what is coming to him—a life of loneliness and self-loathing and unfocused anger. A tormented, hateful life. And maybe at the end of it, he’ll feel redeemed or at least serene, but not now. Not this way. He’s still in the thick of it, and no one deserves the burden but him.

You wait patiently through his silence, watching his eyes, and finally shrug when he keeps his mouth firmly shut. “Or don’t talk,” you say. “Keep your secrets. I get it. But you should know, I won’t judge you.”

“Because you’re my _friend?"_ Snape says derisively. 

“Because I _respect_ you,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “And yes. Because we’re friends.” You laugh, clearly irritated. “Why is that so hard for you to accept?” You raise an eyebrow at him, expression going sly. “Don’t you like me, sir?”

You’re smoldering now, all coy flirtation, leaning toward him invitingly. Snape desperately tries to keep his eyes from the curves of your breasts, and he ends up simply closing them and leaning back in his chair. 

Then he feels your bare foot on his knee—you didn’t put shoes on for your midnight walk—gently nudging him to elicit a reaction. It feels intimate. Familiar. _Too_ familiar. You’re putting aside pretenses, perhaps emboldened by the alcohol. And it feels so utterly _good._

“I know you do,” you purr.

A spark of anger and panic flares in Snape. You know. Of course you do, and you return his feelings more strongly than he could hope. All the dancing around it, all the rules he’s tried to set, have unraveled in two short months. And here you are, drinking whiskey after midnight and _liking_ each other. Your bare foot on his knee is enough to shatter all pretenses, the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and it’s horrifying.

Forethought ceases. He feels like he’s going insane. He has to _do_ something, no more thought, release some of his god-forsaken tension in his chest, his head, his groin. His restraint snaps. He’s going to do something you’ll both regret, right now, consequences be damned. 

Snape draws a deep breath in through his nose and thinks, not for the first time regarding you, _Fuck it._

* * *

Snape’s black eyes fly open, startling you. He’s white with fury, his pupils enlarged, looking more uncontrolled than you’ve ever seen him. 

His hand clamps around your ankle in an iron grip to stop you from nudging him. Against your will, you draw in a small, surprised intake of breath, shrinking away from the violence in his movements. 

And now he’s standing before you, shifting to his feet so quickly you barely have time to register it. You sit back on his desk, stunned. His hands come down on each of your knees to pull them roughly apart, and he forces his body quickly between them.

His hip bones jut against your inner thighs, belt scraping the sensitive flesh there. He transfers his long-fingered grip again to your ankle. You’re forced to bend your leg to accommodate it when he pulls your foot upwards and rests your heel against the edge of the desk. 

Your heart is pounding, feeling vulnerable in a tingly, pleasurable way. Your skirt is short, your legs splayed apart, and he’s between them, solid and forceful. Your panties brush against the coarse fabric of his trousers, and your breath hitches.

The hand that is not locked around your ankle slides up your opposite thigh, the strength in his long fingers only _just_ restrained from leaving bruises there as he moves them to your skirt. He bunches up the fabric slightly, clearly longing to feel the skin beneath.

Snape’s knees bump the desk, rocking it as he leans over you. You stay still, anticipating his next actions, hoping he’ll go further. Hoping he’ll take this all the way. He certainly looks like he’s considering it, and after all his stoicism and control, it’s wonderfully refreshing. You feel a small smile creep over your face. Finally, he’s not freezing you out! He’s doing what you want, what you _both_ want.

Thank you, Campbell’s Finest!

“I don’t,” he growls, nose to nose with you, and you remember with a start how angry he is, “want. To talk. About Potter. Or his bloody parents.”

“What do you want to do, then?” you whisper, breathy and excited. You can think of a lot of things to do besides talking. And whatever secrets he’s harboring about his past with Sirius Black and the Potter family can wait. Maybe he’ll tell you someday, maybe he won’t. But it all starts with tonight.

Snape grunts at your question, at the satisfaction in your eyes, and roughly jerks you closer to him by the thigh, his hand moving up to cup the side of your ass under your skirt. His hand at your ankle moves too, slowly beginning a journey up your calf. Goosebumps erupt beneath his precise, clever fingers. You laugh nervously.

But Snape is not amused. His eyes are trained downward, raking across your body. Then he meets your gaze again, burning.

“We are not. _Friends,_ [Last name],” he snarls, leaning close. He takes a breath and revises. “You asked what you are to me, and only with this much whiskey in my system can I admit that _I don’t know."_

The confession sends a thrill through you. It’s more than you’ve ever received from him, save for the first night you met.

You savor the feeling of his hips between your thighs, warm and firm, the strong, lithe torso and broad shoulders. You didn’t realize how much you’ve craved his proximity. He’s so close you can smell him—leather-bound books and whiskey and fragrant herbs—and you’re reminded yet again of your undeniable chemistry. He smells _so good._

“You don’t have to know,” you whisper. “I don’t have to know, either.”

Snape’s fingers reach your bare knee, and he slides his hand quickly under to hook your upper calf in his palm. With one forceful tug, he brings your bodies flush. You gasp as you’re shifted down on the desk, your legs wrapped around him. He towers over you, hot and unyielding. It’s impossible not to feel how physically superior he is to you, how much power he commands. It’s impossible not to be turned on by his dominance.

“Good,” Snape hisses, anger still clear in his eyes. “The only thing I’m certain of is that none of… _this..."_ He pulls at your legs again, forcing your bodies to collide, forcing another gasp from you. “...is as simple as _friendship._ And to call it that is unforgivably stupid.”

You feel his firm stomach against yours, and below that, the burgeoning press of him through his trousers. Can he get on with it, already? You’re overheated enough. If he so much as touches you, even kisses you, you’ll shatter.

“Agreed,” you whisper. You bite your lip, eyes flicking to his mouth. “I didn’t want to be friends, anyway.” Ain’t that the truth. Simple friendship with Severus Snape is the last thing you want. Why did you even bring that crap up?

Your hand creeps up to cup his neck, your fingers moving between the silky strands of his hair. You lean up, pressing your chest against his, parting your lips. All you want is for him to come down on you, force his mouth against yours and let this heat take control. In this moment, you can’t imagine wanting anything more.

And he wants it too. Wants you shamelessly and without reluctance. His dark eyes lock on your mouth, and he brings his head down, breathing slowly. Your noses brush. Your lips do not. His long fingers clench spasmodically against your thigh, and you think vaguely that they _will_ bruise now, bruise with the slow, infinitesimal release of his tension.

And just as you decide to turn your head and kiss him—just a slight rotation of the neck, half an inch, maybe less, a goddamn _hair’s breadth_ and you can taste him—Snape tears away from you.

He moves quickly, all at once, like ripping off a bandage. He pushes off the desk with his hands, and suddenly he’s a foot away, breathing harshly, looking at you from between his curtains of dark hair. His anger has returned, or perhaps never left. Those long white hands curl into fists, the tendons standing out.

“Get out,” he whispers, hoarse and low. You’re shaking, and you hate yourself for it.

“What?” you ask. You’re still seated, leaning back on your elbows, one foot resting on the edge of the desk, the other dangling off of it. You don’t even think to close your thighs.

 _"Out,_ [Last name],” he hisses, turning from you. He shakes his head, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose in an expression of frustration you’re coming to know very well. The next time he speaks, it’s in a whisper. “Just get out.”

You scramble off his desk. You’re not sure what you’re feeling. Mostly disappointment. Then there’s confusion, anger. And of course, the heat isn’t gone. The heat is still very much there, still searing, especially when you so much as look at him. He’s so goddamn...

“Unfair,” you snap, picking up the pieces of your pride as you stride quickly toward his office door. You’re still shaking. What the fuck is that about?

“Leave,” he says coldly, and you wrench open the heavy office door.

“Jesus,” you whisper, then louder, “Witness me leaving!” 

You do almost leave. But the words bubble up in your throat like acid, and then you’re spitting them at him.

“That was unbelievably cruel of you,” you say, your voice thick. “Unfair. Totally unfair. You…you’re…” You feel the urge to sob. “God, I hope you’re wasted. I hope you’re so fucking drunk right now, you don’t remember tonight. Because what you just did to me…” You shake your head bitterly. “If I were you, I’d never fucking forgive myself.”

And you’re gone before he opens his mouth to reply.


	15. Silent Treatment

* * *

_What's the worst that I can say?  
_ _Things are better if I stay.  
_ _So long and good night._

"Helena" - My Chemical Romance

* * *

The first Potions class on Monday is the worst. You almost skip, but experience has taught you that that’ll only force him to speak to you. And you can barely look at him right now, much less have a conversation.

You get to the dungeons a bit early, having a free period just before class. Usually, in the past, you’d walk in to find him alone and spend some time chatting before the other students arrive. And it’s such a habit, and you’re a bit distracted by the book you’re reading, so you’re already at the classroom before you realize being alone with Severus Snape is the last thing you want.

You halt in your tracks just after coming in the door, closing your eyes in disbelief at yourself. _Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot!_

He looks up from his desk and freezes when your eyes meet. It’s almost imperceptible, but his mouth tightens. As if _he’s_ angry with _you!_

You scoff, affronted, knowing you’re not giving him the benefit of the doubt here. He doesn’t deserve it though. So you spin around and stomp out of the room, content to wait in the hall until Colin and Benji arrive. He doesn’t come after you. He just sits at his desk and broods.

_Fuck him._

When your friends arrive, you finally go inside and grit your teeth through his lecture. You spend most of the time staring at your desk or your cauldron.

When class is over, you’re ready to sprint out of there. Unfortunately, though, his low, silky voice comes from the front—and it’s in front of everyone, so you can’t avoid it.

“[Last name].”

You sigh, bristling, and wait until the others leave before you turn to him, sitting behind his desk. He’s staring at you, a hard look in his eyes. One moment becomes two, then stretches on and on. And he doesn’t open his fucking mouth.

 _“What?”_ you snap, barely concealing hostility. And Snape has the audacity to sneer at you. 

He stands abruptly and paces over to you. You watch him warily with every step, until he’s two feet away and towering over you. But you won’t back down. Not until he apologizes.

Suddenly, Snape whisks out a piece of parchment and hands it to you, then returns to his desk. Your heart skips—did he write you an apology letter or something? You look down slowly.

No. He didn’t. Of course he fucking didn’t.

The parchment you’re holding is nothing more than the essay you wrote last week, marked up with green ink. The passing grade on top is a bit lower than you think you deserve, but not bad.

You look back up at him, mouth agape. This? _This_ is why he kept you after class?

Stifling a scream of rage, you ball up the essay and throw it to the ground. He watches impassively, silent. Then you spin on your heel and exit through the door.

And for the next month, you barely speak to each other.

* * *

You attend Potions class as usual, but aside from a few words regarding your assignments or classwork, you manage to avoid all interactions. Every time you meet Snape’s eye, you’re the one to break contact and look away. Every time he comes near for any reason, you move across the room. And he picks up on your ice (as if he could miss it). And, as if he has the right, he returns it.

During the Felix maintenance sessions, Snape finds reasons not to be in his office. You maintain the potion unsupervised, merely leaving notes for him to check. Advanced Potions Club is treated like class, barely a word between you, and when Snape comes in to oversee, you often leave.

Snape tells himself it’s for the best. You’re furious with him, and he understands why. The way he behaved was, as you said, unfair. Cruel. He allowed his emotions, his baser instincts to control him momentarily. Something he almost never does. 

And while the decision to throw you out before things could go farther was, bar-none, the cleverest bloody thing he did that night, he shouldn’t have put you in that position in the first place.

Part of him wants to blame you for it--you tend to bring out his emotive and instinctual side. And it would be so much easier to be angry with you. But really, he alone is responsible for his actions. He knows that.

Your furious expression as you stormed from his office keeps flashing into his mind over the next few weeks. You hadn’t appreciated your hopes being raised then dashed. And who can blame you for that? It would be delusional at this point for Snape to tell himself you’re not attracted to him. You made your attraction, even your affection, more than clear—you both had. But for him to lead you on, to show you with his hands and body exactly how much he wants you, then to leave you cold...that was cruel.

You’re furious with him. You have the right to be.

All the same, Snape tells himself this is a good thing. Perhaps you’ll finally hate him. Perhaps you can finish this year in icy silence, and a somewhat student-teacher dynamic can be restored. It prevents him from having to apologize, and it prevents you both from making future mistakes. He even tries to be happy about it.

But it’s affecting him more than he’ll admit. With every day that passes knowing you’re still angry with him, Snape’s mood gets darker. Never the kindest or most patient teacher, he finds he’s even less forgiving during class. Students scatter at his approach.

There’s one particularly unfortunate incident involving Potter and the Granger girl. Malfoy and Potter were bickering, and Malfoy shot off a curse, which hit Granger in the face. It caused her teeth to grow absurdly long. Snape was overly cruel to her about it, causing her to burst into tears and flee. He cringes a little, thinking back on it. Your words about not lowering himself to your levels echo in his ears.

As November drags on, Snape finds himself wishing you’d just talk to him. He hates this frozen silence between you. But he won’t bring it up. He won’t ask forgiveness. That seems weak, especially when Snape knows he should be using this opportunity to cut ties. To end this ridiculous relationship, whatever it is.

But the idea of _not_ trying to make things right with you...that too seems weak.

And so he hovers on the brink of action. November goes by sluggishly, and suddenly the first task of the tournament is upon them. And Snape, after much consideration, finally decides he must act.

It’s a Tuesday. Classes end at noon, and the entire school begins a mass exodus toward the forest, where a stadium has been set up to house the first Triwizard event. Despite his lack of interest, Snape has nevertheless heard rumors from the rest of the faculty that the task involves dragons. This seems to be true, judging from the roars that reach them over the trees as Snape trudges down the path in the wake of excited, jostling students.

He’s volunteered to patrol the perimeter of the stadium, in case any students use the chaos to try to slip away. It seems unlikely. Snape is probably the only one in the castle who feels ambiguous about all of this. Everyone wants to see which champion will emerge victorious. Everyone wonders what Potter will do.

The afternoon is clear and crisp; the air smells of rain, but the sky is cloudless. Snape briefly gets a look at the four dragons—a quick, sleek Welsh Green; an aggravated, vicious Chinese Fireball; a sulky Swedish Short-Snort; and an absolutely massive Norwegian Ridgeback. Fascinating creatures, to be sure.

He vaguely wonders how the champions will fare, but seeing the dragons is by far the most interesting part. He has no desire to watch the proceedings, so after sharing a few words with Minerva, he leaves the stands to begin his patrol.

The roar of the beasts and the hundreds of students dims into an easily ignorable hum as he walks his path around the stands. The forest is picturesque, leaves of gold and red peeking between the evergreens. Snape takes a deep breath. Finally, solitude.

After ten minutes of leisurely pacing the perimeter, a fresh roar of applause and screams from the stands marks the entrance of the first champion. Bagman’s muted announcements tell him this Diggory, but Snape stops listening after that. He turns his eyes back to the trees, thoughts straying to you. 

The shame has faded—he’s accepted that he is a coward—but a strange melancholy has taken hold. The whole debacle with you fills him with regret. It feels like such a...what? A wasted opportunity? How utterly _absurd._

A movement from the corner of his eye causes him to look up. A figure has just rounded the corner of the stands from the direction of the lavatories. Even before you come into focus, Snape knows it’s you. The highlights in your hair glint in the sunlight, and he thinks he’d recognize your treacherous little form anywhere. He’s spent months, after all, hyper-aware of you. He knows what you look like from the corner of his eye.

You’re walking briskly toward him, probably heading back to your seat in the Slytherin section, but when you catch sight of him you slow significantly. As if you can back out now. As if you can stop and turn and run the opposite way without sacrificing all that damnable pride of yours.

Snape remains still, watching as you square your shoulders and quicken your stride again. You pass by him within a yard, your chin up, eyes flat and looking anywhere but at him. Snape weighs his options. He needs to speak with you, yes, but is this really the best time? Mid-task, with the crowd screaming from the stands and Bagman’s distant voice echoing beyond? Only yards away, a dragon is attempting to immolate a teenager.

He almost lets you go. You pass him, upping the pace even more, and you’re just about to make your clean escape when Snape turns after you.

“[Last name],” he says lazily, raising a hand. You stop immediately, mid-stride, coming to a dead halt a few yards from him. He watches your entire body go rigid before you slowly turn to face him. You’re pale and straight-faced, but he can sense your fury bubbling underneath.

“Professor,” you reply, cold and clipped. Snape takes a few steps toward you, and you do not shrink away from him. Your jaw, however, clamps shut, and your hands clutch hard at the straps of your book bag. How you must hate him.

Yes. That’s it. You _must._

“I need to speak to you,” Snape says, his tone even and professional. Even so, your eyes widen and a flash of fury crosses your features.

“Here?” you ask, disbelief and anger coloring your words. “Now?”

“Here,” Snape replies coolly, as if you’re dim-witted. “Now.”

You make a strangled noise in your throat, as if you simply can’t believe his gall. Snape resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Well?” you say after a moment. How would you react, he wonders, if he admonished you for your barely-concealed hostility toward a teacher? You’d scream then, he’s sure of it. You might even strike at him. It’s almost tempting.

“I have come to a decision,” Snape says. Your eyes flicker with confusion now, and you remain silent. “You are hereby relieved of your duties maintaining the Felix Felicis. I believe your punishment has been more than served.”

Confusion clouds your features. You clearly did not expect him to take the conversation in this direction.

“What?” you say, brow knitted.

“You are no longer required to come in daily to stir the potion. I will take charge of it from now on,” he says.

He doesn’t know what he expected, but Snape isn’t prepared for the pain that fills your eyes. Suddenly, you not only look furious, you look like you’re about to cry. Snape rushes to explain, to get this agonizing interaction over with and walk quickly in the opposite direction. 

“Surely,” he says, “you have more important studies to focus on than a potion you are already adequately familiar with. It is a waste of your time, and mine.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times. Then you stomp toward him, finger raised accusingly.

“You,” you snap, “are a _bastard."_

 _So much for pretenses._ Snape sighs, resigned, and glances around to make sure you’re alone. He sees no one, but all the same, he grabs your upper arm and quickly hauls you into the shadows under the bleachers. The screaming of the crowd echoes above you, but it feels strangely private between the rough hewn boards. Strangely intimate.

Snape looks down into your furious eyes, shining with frustrated tears. You take a step back from him, attempting unsuccessfully to wrench away from his grip.

“I am _trying,"_ Snape hisses, shaking you slightly by the arm, “to keep from forcing my company upon you. I am trying to give you what you _want.”_

“What I _want?"_ you cry, finally ripping away. “What I _want_ is a goddamn apology!"

“And what good is that?” Snape growls softly, closing the distance between you. “What purpose would it serve, Miss [Last name], if I were to tell you that I am _sorry?_ How, precisely, would it affect the outcome of this rubbish? It would change _nothing."_

“It would make _me_ feel better!” you snap.

Your raised voice is covered easily by the screams of the crowd above. All the same, Snape glances up anxiously. If someone sees you, comes across you speaking privately like this, close together and clearly heated...

“Come,” he says flatly, grabbing you once more by the arm and leading you deeper into the bowels of the stands. The sounds of the crowd are even more muted in here, buffered by layers of wood and metal. Boards creak above you, sawdust floating down as the crowds stamp their feet and scream. Snape wonders vaguely if they’re on to the next champion yet, then decides he doesn’t care.

He releases you and paces away, feeling anger and disquiet rise in his gut. He passes a long-fingered hand over his face, frustrated. You’re both frustrated, he knows. This is an impossible situation and, yes, he’s being a complete ass on purpose. The goal is to elicit a response, not speak the truth.

“Now,” he says, turning to face you again. You stand with a hand on your hip, oddly charming in your sincerity, and Snape has to fight hard against a pulse of affection. As it is, he forgets what he was about to say.

 _"Now,"_ you snap, taking advantage of his momentary hesitation, “I get to have my say. You’ve had more than enough of one.”

“[Last name]…” Snape warns. He has to regain control. But you ignore him.

 _"No,"_ you say. “Do you remember what happened, _sir?"_

“This is beside the point…”

 _"Do_ you?" you demand.

Snape meets your eye now, angry. “Of course I do,” he hisses. 

“Really?” You laugh scornfully, almost cruelly. But however badly you want to look fierce, your eyes are still wet and hurt. “That can’t be true. Because if you really remembered, _sir,_ you would have apologized to me _weeks_ ago. You wouldn’t be this much of a dick. You’d be fair to me.”

“Would I be?” Snape asks, turning sharply at this and stepping toward you. Your obscenity infuriates him. It’s utterly inappropriate—something that could earn you weeks of detention—but he knows he deserves it. That makes him angry too. This _situation_ makes him angry. 

You shrink instinctively, backing away from him until you hit a giant support beam behind you. You stop, leaning against it, nowhere left to go. Snape looms over you, planting a hand on the beam above your head, trapping you there.

An evil, awful plan springs to his mind. You’ll hate him after today. You have to, for both of you. Mostly for you—Snape has a feeling he’ll be worse off for this whole experience regardless. But you _have_ to hate him.

"Fair," he rasps. “You think so?” He presses closer menacingly, closing the distance between you, smelling your scent of vanilla and raspberries.

Suspicion and hesitance flash across your face, and your eyes narrow. “What are—?”

“You think I would be _good_ to you?” Snape says. “You think I consider your _feelings?"_ He shakes his head, grimacing. “You are such a child. A little girl with her head in the clouds. _Fair."_ He spits the word, making himself stare into your wide, surprised eyes. “I will not apologize for my actions to the likes of _you,_ [Last name]. Though I suppose I'm not surprised you expect it. Your ego, after all, is boundless.”

Snape quickly presses himself against your body, purposely intimidating and invasive. You inhale sharply through your nose, eyes flashing. But the surprise is gone. You’re watching him closely, more aware than he expects. Do you recognize the game he’s playing? Snape attempts to up the stakes.

“Your perception of this situation is thoroughly flawed,” he says, deadly soft, reaching up to grip your chin between long white fingers. You meet his gaze fearlessly, looking pale and angry but no longer hurt. “I care _nothing_ for your petty demands. You want better treatment?” He sneers at you. _"You_ do not make the rules. I will do as I wish, regardless of your _feelings._ ” 

The hand planted on the post behind you drops down to your waist and pulls you firmly against him. 

“You believe we have some kind of bond?" He scoffs. “You were a pretty little distraction for _one_ night. A body I used and discarded and never planned on having to deal with again. Since then you’ve been a _nuisance_ to me. You are nothing _more_ than a nuisance, [Last name], and you never will be. And I am losing. My. _Patience."_ He locks eyes with you, forcing himself to look. “Do you _understand?"_

For a moment, even he is sickened by the words he’d spoken. Even as lies, they are cruel and despicable. Things he should never say. Things he doesn’t mean. Things meant only to hurt. All the same, he is satisfied with them. If anything will do the job, they will.

You are silent for a long moment, and the crowd roars around you. Perhaps a champion had gotten an egg. Or been killed. It doesn’t matter to him either way.

Then you smile, and Snape’s heart sinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter might've been a little frustrating...but I think Snape would be frustrating in this scenario. Some might say, blatantly toxic.
> 
> Anyway, please stay tuned. Because you won't want to miss the next chapter...bwahahahaha...


	16. Beneath the Stands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow the response to the previous chapter was amazing. I didn't expect people to freak out over Snape being mean essentially for no reason. Then I realized, as Snaddy simps, we actually live for that shit (seriously, the amount of times someone has commented "he's so mean, it's so hot" on this story lmaooooo). I love you all so much.
> 
> Okay, BIG REMINDER: this story is rated M. For sexual themes.
> 
> No reason....definitely doesn't have to do with this chapter...just casually reminding you............... >:)
> 
> Oh also this chap is extra long. Again......no reason....
> 
> You're precious and valid, babies. Have you eaten today?

* * *

_I want to hold you close,  
_ _Soft breasts, beating heart,  
_ _As I whisper in your ear,  
_ _"I want to fucking tear you apart."_

"Tear You Apart" - She Wants Revenge

* * *

He’s so full of shit. It’s actually softening you toward him.

You’re still mad, sure, but it’s been nearly a month. Yes, you want an apology. And yes, you want to show him your anger. But mostly...Jesus, mostly you just miss him.

You miss your inside jokes and long conversations. You miss the smirks he’d send you during Advanced Potions Club when his guard was down, or the way he’d linger around your table during class. All this distance between you has only highlighted what you hadn’t seen before: the signs of his affection and attraction. When he lets himself, he wants to be near you, wants to look at you. He wants your company.

So perhaps you weren’t completely sure before. But strangely enough, this twenty-four day standoff has completely solidified the knowledge that _he likes you._ And it follows that he considers your feelings, and he wants to be fair to you. Whatever he’s doing right now, however cruel and shallow he’s pretending to be, is some sort of act.

I mean, _a body he used and discarded?_ Come _on!_ The man you know, the man you’ve gotten to know, would never think like that. He’s never hinted at feelings even so remotely sexist, and you have the wherewithal right now to doubt every word that comes out of his mouth. And while you haven’t completely figured out his motives yet, you’re _absolutely_ about to his call his bluff. 

“You’re very scary when you try to be,” you say.

Snape’s shoulders stiffen and his hand clenches against your back, balling the fabric of your shirt in his hand. _"Stop,_ you stupid girl,” he snaps, giving you a little shake, but you interrupt.

“What is this?” you say. “Are you actually trying to convince me you’re some kind of rapey asshole?”

“You are not—” 

“Well, I’m very hurt and intimidated,” you interrupt, smirking. Snape growls under his breath, frustrated, and looks away. “No, really, you cut me deep there. Very convincing—”

 _"Shut. Up,"_ he snaps, suddenly bringing his face close to yours. You vaguely wondered why he hasn’t released you yet. The jig is up. He can stop pretending to have no respect for you.

 _"You_ shut up,” you say. “Stop with all this ‘I don’t respect you, you mean nothing to me’ crap. Just apologize already and get it over with. You know you want to.” You smirk at him, which clearly makes him furious. You have to stifle the urge to laugh. “I’ll accept in good grace and we can go back to the way things were. Unless…” You wriggle against him. “...you don’t _want_ to go back to the way things were.”

Snape’s eyes snap to yours, a flash of surprise crossing them before he composes himself. You almost laugh. How does it feel now, with the tables turned? You love doing that to him. If you have to play games, he can’t always have the upper hand. If you have your way, he rarely will.

He pulls you closer to him, the back of your shirt still balled in his fist. Now it’s a game of chicken. Who will back down first?

 _"Did_ you hear a _single_ thing I said?” Snape asks. “Are you deaf, or are you simply an idiot?”

“I guess I’m deaf,” you reply, voice on the edge of a laugh. “Mind repeating yourself? I can’t hear you over all the bullshit.”

“I am never less than baffled by that ego of yours…”

“It’s not about _ego,”_ you snap, finally getting irritated. You’re giving him a chance to swallow his fucking pride and just be straight with you. “I am calling you on your _lies,_ sir, and the least you could do after acting the way you have is admit that I’m right. Because I see through it. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Snape is silent, staring at you with anger-filled eyes, his lips pressed tight. It seems he has no way to respond—you might have even elicited guilt in him.

“I’m not blind,” you say firmly. “I’m looking at evidence. I’m looking at the fact that we willingly hung out together _all the time_ and enjoyed every second of it. You sought out my company, not just a few times, but consistently for months. If I was just a ‘pretty distraction,’ why the hell did you bother? If I was a nuisance, why did you want me around?” You laugh, shake your head. “I get what you’re doing. Trying to drive me away. I understand that’s probably the right thing to do.” Slowly, you meet his eyes, watching the turmoil therein. “And we _have_ tried to distance ourselves, haven’t we? Tried to pull away. And you know what? It sucks. I hate it. I hate not getting to interact with you. I hate the space between us. We both hate it. Am I wrong?”

Above you and far away, Ludo Bagman is speaking into a wand, sending his voice booming through the arena. A dragon screams. The crowd thunders its applause. But it’s all muted, meaningless compared to Snape’s deep and tumultuous black eyes. He’s silent, so you take this as a sign that he hates the distance too.

“We have something,” you continue softly, your voice carrying to him despite all the background noise. “Something that could be…I don’t know. I don’t know what it could be. But I’ve decided something over the past month. Or maybe I decided it a long time ago, but now I’m sure. I’ve decided I want to find out. And I think you do, too. And I’ve decided…” You straighten and take a deep breath, then force out your next words. Your final say. “I’ve decided I’m not going to let you ruin it for us.”

Snape is silent, staring at you with an intensity that you cannot decipher. Is it anger? Embarrassment? Oh god. What if you’re completely off base here? You just threw all your cards on the table, reckless and demanding, so sure in your conviction that his feelings run as deep as yours. But what if they don’t?

If Snape scoffed then, pulled away and called you a stupid girl and reiterated his previous points, your resolve would break. You would run from him, burning with anger and embarrassment, and spend the rest of the year avoiding him. If he retained his convictions, insisted that he felt nothing for you, that would be the end of it.

But he doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he’s silent and unmoving. He still holds you close to him, his eyes burning as your gazes lock. He does not scoff. He does not push away from you. He does not say a single word.

And thinking you must have just driven him beyond the brink of madness, you have to stifle a little giggle. Your eyes soften, examining his face, and you realize what you see there is fear. He’s scared. And of course he is. You’re scared, too. This has gone too far, and neither of you know how to deal with it.

You raise your hand and gently touch his face, fingers ghosting along his sharp cheekbone and down to the strong line of his jaw. He flinches from you at first, then remains still. You smile, bringing your other hand up to the other side of his face. You’re hardly able to believe your luck as his arms tighten a little around you.

Then Snape shifts away and half-turns, for a moment clearly intent on removing himself from this situation. In another second, he seems to rethink, and he stops, that deep crease appearing between his brows. He huffs out a frustrated breath, grimacing.

“How…” Snape begins, then pauses to wet his lips. “How, exactly, do you intend to make this work?” 

“I have no idea,” you say, laughing. Snape scoffs, disgusted, and pulls away from you fully. He turns, again seeming to want to walk away but only making it a pace or so. 

“That is less than helpful,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You laugh again. “I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. “We could just kind of…play it by ear?”

“Play it by—?” Snape repeats, utter disbelief in his tone. He’s not looking at you; he's gazing into the distance with an expression of complete incredulity. Then he sneers, shakes his head and finally meets your eyes. “You are a fool.”

“At least I’m not a coward,” you shoot back.

That sparks something in him. Snape turns and approaches you rapidly, almost like he received an electric shock. He’s on you in an instant, his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, making you crane back to meet his black eyes. There’s something in them that looks a lot like conviction.

“You stupid, damnable girl,” he hisses. And he brings his mouth swiftly down on yours.

* * *

His kiss is deep and open, and Snape fully expects, even hopes, that you’ll pull away. But your moan opposes that possibility, and then your fingers are buried in his hair, and you kiss him back with enthusiasm. Your lips are full, soft, wet, and your breathing is heavy, and you’re allowing yourself to be caught up. Just swept up in the moment.

Not for the first time, Snape reminds himself that you’re never going to set boundaries when it comes to this relationship. That when you want something, you want it fully and deeply and damn the consequences.

He is supposed to be the rational one, the calm one, yet all he wants as your mouth opens and your tongue meets his, is to give himself to your fire.

Snape pushes you backwards against the wooden support post, pinning you against it as he kisses you. He takes your hands, wandering down his chest, and secures them above your head, pressing closer.

You moan and shift to the side, accidentally falling into the space where another beam runs horizontally from the first. It creates a convenient seat for you, at the perfect height to bring your hips level with his. Snape wastes no time in utilizing it—he lifts you up forcibly and plants you there, long fingers gripping your thighs.

You gasp as he presses hard against you, spreading your legs, pushing up your skirt. He forces your legs around his narrow hips and pulls you closer, teeth nipping at your lower lip. He reaches up to the clasp of your cloak and undoes it with a dextrous twitch of his fingers, pushing it off your shoulders to flutter to the ground behind you.

Snape's hands go to your hips, fully splayed and deliberate as they begin a slow journey up your torso, raising goosebumps. Up, up, up...until one hand grips the knot of your green school tie and yanks it loose and to the side. He wants to feel every curve, every tremble of your smooth warm skin moving beguilingly under the thin cotton of your uniform shirt.

Both hands move to cup your breasts, taking his time, languidly filling his palms with your soft skin. You gasp, arching into it, and he chuckles under his breath at your reaction. Then he’s moving his hands up to cup your slender neck and tilt your head back, deepening the kiss. It’s soft at first, then he tugs roughly and a lovely moan escapes you as he ravishes your mouth. Your fingers claw at his shoulders, desperate.

Snape presses even closer, wanting nothing between you, your warm body a wonderful furnace against the Autumn chill. His hands leave your neck and roam down again, all over your lovely curves, wishing he could see you bare. But now is not the time for that. 

Above and around you, the crowd roars. You’re outside, practically in public. You should stop. This is moving quickly toward something more than unwise.

But every time Snape thinks of pulling away, you’ll moan or move, or your tongue will flick against his, and he finds he can’t. The things he could do to you...He wants it, needs it, _now._

Snape’s long, precise fingers fist deep in your hair, almost primal, yanking your head back again. He knows he’s being rough, but you’re all glossy in the face, irresistible, and the hair pulling brings a flash of lust to your eyes. So he concludes that you like it—as if your moans aren’t evidence enough. You rock against his body, grinding against the hardness under his trousers.

He growls into your ear at the rush of pleasure you force through him. His hips rock back against you, just as enthusiastic, pushing and rutting.

The hand that is not tangled in your hair flies to cup one full breast, then unbutton the school uniform and slip inside without any ado. Your flesh burns, fire against the November cold, and he hisses at the sensation. He tugs aside your bra and toys with your nipple, running it between index and middle finger.

“I’ve thought about this, you know,” he drawls, breathing hard, mouth hot against your ear. “Your body. Your tongue.”

You moan into his mouth when he presses it open against yours, and he feels your hand slide down to fumble with his belt buckle. He thinks about slapping it away—you did not ask permission, nor is he sure this is wise. But he doesn’t. He’s not sure he could if he tried.

Then Bagman’s voice thunders through the arena. The crowd roars, a hysterical peak. Snape jolts at the noise, pausing and ripping his hand away from you, suddenly remembering exactly where you are and what you’re doing. He pulls away, about to turn and look around, make sure no one is coming...

But you gasp, “Don’t stop,” and reach up quickly to pull his lips back to you. A rush of irritation at your demand, but gods do you feel good...

Your hands drop back down to his belt, and you work determinedly until it is loose. Before he can stop you, you part the fabric of his slacks and touch him, skin to heated skin. He hisses in pleasure, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes. One hand wraps around your throat, long fingers squeezing just enough to convey his utter dominance, and he pulls your mouth against his. And you moan and press and move against him, soft and pliable and smelling of raspberries. And he doesn’t care anymore—the world is made solely of you and your heated breath and your body against him. Bugger the rest.

Snape groans and kisses you harder, squeezing your neck, surrendering to the heat. Echoing his actions in his office a month ago, he quickly reaches down and slides his hand under your knee, pulling your leg up to brace your foot against the support beam beneath you. This parts your soft, shapely thighs even more. Splaying them wide for him. All for him.

He pushes up your short skirt to bunch around your hips, exposing your lacy black panties to his greedy eyes, careless of your sensitive flesh against the rough wooden beam. He brings his fingers quickly to your underwear, massaging for a moment, introducing pressure in a hot, wonderful rush, watching your eyes light up in pleasure. Then he hooks the lace aside, and he feels your perfect core, and he groans deep in his chest.

His mouth finds your throat, sucking and biting in a vicious, unthinking way as you press together, as he rubs himself against you between your thighs—so close, but not enough. Not nearly enough. 

Snape’s slacks hang loose around his hips, completely undone. You writhe against him, wanting him, your body asking for more. Somewhere far away, a dragon screams and the crowd thunders. Neither of you are ready to slow down, but this is moving so fast it’s already out of control.

“Do you want this?” Snape rasps, pausing to look up into your eyes. He leaves the rest unspoken—here, outside, under some glorified bleachers? With the rest of the school mere yards away? _With me?_

You gaze back at him, face flushed, lips swollen, looking so bloody beautiful he can’t believe he’s touching you.

“Yes,” you say, breathless, clearly impatient. “I fucking want this.”

Snape growls at your cheekiness, because it only turns him on further. He wants you too.

So he thrusts into you in one smooth motion, hard and deep. You moan together, louder than is perhaps wise, but it’s lost in the roar of the crowd above.

As your bodies begin to move in perfect time, perfect unison, the world once again boils down to nothing but you—panting into his hair, your moans, the way you grip at his shoulders, your teeth occasionally nipping at his ear as you whisper, _god, yes, sir, just like that._

Even in a such a strange, public place—even with the rough wood of the support beam below you, the discomfort of your position—this is just as good as the first time. Better. The months of tension, all the fights and laughter, the long discussions...And now this, an explosive outpouring of silent desire. Perhaps the thrill of being caught is part of it. Certainly, it heightens the excitement. 

But really, it’s simple. Snape knows you now, knows your mind is just as attractive as your body. And to have pieces of both...it's incredible.

You grind against him, sinuous and pliant, and Snape growls at the feel of your body, reaching up to wrench apart your top. Buttons scatter to each side, and you laugh, breathless and surprised. The laugh turns into a moan when he rips your bra aside and leans down to run his tongue along your soft skin. His mouth captures one nipple while his hands explore the skin over your ribcage, guiding you, keeping you upright.

Your pace increases into something reckless, barely a beat between thrusts. Soon Snape’s fingers tug relentlessly at your hair, his opposite arm braced like a bar across your back. His teeth move up to latch at your neck, your thighs clench around him. You lean back against his arm, eyes closed in ecstasy, moving with abandon.

“You like that?” he growls breathlessly, jerking your head back to look at you. “You like that, little girl?”

And you’re trembling around him, cresting a wave, and he’s feeling it too, feeling it rush up and over, torrential, forceful, drowning you both...

It’s explosive. You feel it reflected in the roar of the crowd above, blissfully unaware of the bliss which crashes down upon the pair of you mere seconds apart.

Then you collapse against each other, sweaty and exhausted. Snape holds you, strangely tender while you catch your breath.

You can only linger for a few moments, though he would like to extend your time together. Suddenly Bagman’s voice is echoing over the stadium in what sounds like a final way, and the crowd begins to shift and move, pouring from the arena. Even shielded as you are by layers of flags and wooden beams, beneath the stands is no longer a safe place to be.

“Damn,” Snape hisses, looking around as the excitable chatter of hundreds of students moving toward the castle becomes louder. Behind him, you exhale a breathy laugh.

“Damn, indeed,” you say, hopping down from your perch and righting your skirt around your thighs. Snape is busy redoing his pants, pushing his sweaty hair impatiently from his eyes. He can’t find it in himself to be stressed, however, not when he’s buzzing and pleasantly dizzy. He staggers, still struggling with his belt, and glances up to see you looking down at your ruined shirt, helpless. 

Then your eyes flick toward him, your gazes lock, and immediately you’re grinning at him. He can’t help but smile back. Your grin breaks into breathless laughter as you try feebly to fold buttonless fabric over your exposed chest. 

Quickly, Snape withdraws his wand from his robes and flicks it. The fallen buttons shoot back to their places, and the shirt does itself up on its own. You smile at him in thanks, then shake your head.

“Holy shit,” you say, starting to giggle again.

“Holy shit, indeed,” he replies, and you laugh harder. Snape reaches up to pass a hand over his face, disbelief and amusement in equal measure. 

“Did that really just happen?” you ask.

“I am trying to decide,” he replies. “It feels like a dream.” 

He hadn’t meant to say that—none of his guards are up right now, and he doesn’t like it. But you merely beam at him, eyes soft and romantic. Then they’re distracted to the shadows behind him. Hundreds of people, moving along the path, back toward the castle. Snape follows your gaze.

“I think now would be a good time…” he begins.

“Blend in with the crowd?”

“Precisely.”

“Well,” you say, tilting your head and stepping toward him. He watches, so used to being wary he forgets for a moment it’s no longer worthwhile. “I’d like to do this again sometime. That okay, Prof?” 

You’re so close to him now, and he remembers your warmth and your sighs, the pleasure you bring, and it takes real effort not to pull you against him again.

“I believe you still have a luck potion to brew,” he replies instead, arching an eyebrow. “My office. Every evening, [Last name]. No excuses.”

You lean up and give him a sweet, open kiss. It takes everything in him not to deepen it. After a few moments, you break away and cast him another grin before starting for the crowd.

“[First name],” Snape says, turning after you. You stop, arching your brow. “I know we are, to coin your phrase, ‘playing it by ear.’ But I trust you to be discreet. I trust you to be smart...smarter than we were today.”

But your reply does nothing for his misgivings about this whole ridiculous, wonderful affair.

“Oh, Professor,” you say, exasperated. “Don’t ruin it.”

Then you turn, and you disappear into the crowd.


	17. The Start of Something Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to the last chapter blew my mind. You guys are incredible.
> 
> I hope you like where I take this story. I have some pretty...intense plans. Not sure if you noticed, but Snape's life is pretty dramatic and angsty. And I know I want to stay true to the books. So how does a happily ever after play in? DOES it play in? Decisions, decisions...
> 
> Whatever the case, we still have a loooooong way to go.
> 
> Love you, babies. Drink water.

* * *

_Take you like a drug,  
_ _I taste you on my tongue._

"Daddy Issues" - The Neighborhood

* * *

You return to the Slytherin common room, tired and satisfied and utterly unable to stop smiling. You run up the stairs to your dorm, mercifully empty, and close the door. Then you lean back against it, close your eyes and sigh blissfully. Flashes of Snape’s hands, his breath against your ear, his warmth, his smell...it makes you flush, makes you want it again (and again and again). And with a giddy thrill, you realize that’s now a definite possibility.

Finally. _Finally._ It’s happening. It’s _real._

_It’s dangerous._

You shush the words in your head, that pesky, pessimistic voice of reason. So what if it is? So what if it’s against the rules? So what if it could ruin both your lives? It’s worth it. _Snape_ is worth it.

“Severus,” you whisper, correcting your own thoughts. You certainly have the right to be on a first name basis with him, now.

You have to be smart though. Like he said. This has to be conducted carefully from now on. It doesn’t matter that you long to tell a friend, gush about it. No one can know.

But you’re not worried about that. You can keep a secret, and lord knows he can keep one too. And god, he’s so _worth it._

Your chemistry is, like, _wow._ The sex confirmed that again explosively. You seem to know each other, can read each other without a word spoken. You find you can tell instinctively what he likes, and he seemed to read your goddamn _mind_ at times—changing his position or actions a split second before you asked him to. It’s promising. If every time is that good, your spark might never go out!

You flop on your bed like a love-struck little girl, clutching a pillow to your chest and giggling. Severus Snape, the Potions Master. Your...what? Your boyfriend? God, no, that’s so off-putting...Your lover? True but cheesy...Your beau?

You burst into giggles at the thought, rolling around on your sheets and relishing the contentment and joy. When you calm a bit, still smiling, you lie on your back and gaze at the green and silver bed canopy above.

Severus Snape. Yours. Just _yours._

“...looked rather good, didn’t he?” The muffled voice comes through the dormitory door just before it opens, and Harper strides in, followed by Merryweather and Valeria.

“He’s a Hufflepuff, Harp,” one of the Gray twins chides, wrinkling her nose.

“Pure-blood, though,” says the other. The girls haven’t noticed you, striding toward their respective beds and beginning to shrug off their cloaks.

“Exactly,” Harper chirps. “Anyway, you saw him with that dragon.” She fans herself with an immaculately manicured hand. “Positively _masculine_.”

“Is he single?” Valeria—or at least, you’re pretty sure it’s Valeria—says.

“Does it matter?” Harper purrs. You roll your eyes, grabbing a book from your nightstand and opening it. Harper has a boyfriend. Pretty uncool, even if it is just talk.

“I hear he fancies Cho Chang,” Merryweather—presumably—mentions.

“What the hell is a Cho Chang?” Harper spits. She finally turns and spots you sprawled on your bed. “Oh. [Last name]. Didn’t see you there.”

“Yup,” you say, managing an insincere smile before returning to your book.

Harper continues blithely, as if she’s been given any indication that you’re interested. “We were just discussing the champions’ performances at the task today. I liked Diggory most.” Her almond-shaped eyes narrow shrewdly. “Which part was your favorite?”

_Uh, well, that would probably have to be the incredible sex I was having._

“[First name] wasn’t _at_ the task, Harper,” Valeria says, smirking.

“At least,” says her twin, “ _we_ didn’t see her.” All three pairs of eyes turn on you curiously.

“Oh?” Harper says. “Is that true?”

“I was there,” you say, as calmly as you can. Jesus, why is your stupid heart thumping so hard? There’s no way _anyone_ could know. Why is your immediate thought that someone does? “I, uh, I was near the back.” You gesture with the book in your hand. “Reading.”

“ _Reading_?” Harper sneers. “During a task?” 

You shrug. “Got bored.”

“Good lord, [Last name]...” Harper begins. She’s about to say more, doubtless something scathing, when the door opens again and Brenna comes through. She’s carrying a bundle of black fabric, and when she sees you she smiles and tosses it over.

“This yours, [First name]?” she asks. Frowning, you grab and examine it. It’s your cloak—your name is stitched inside the collar, a school requirement—and for a moment you’re confused.

“Uh, yeah,” you say. “Thanks. Where—?”

Then you remember. You had it on earlier. When you met Severus outside the arena. When he dragged you between the support beams. He took it off of you himself, tossed it to the ground. You must have left it—

“Under the stands,” Brenna says. “Clean up crew found it.” She sits on her bed, starting to unlace her shoes. “Colin and Benji are looking for you, by the way.”

“ _Under_ the stands…?” Harper asks, her eyes narrowing even further. “What were you—?”

“Better go meet them,” you say quickly, sliding off the bed. You ball up your cloak and throw it in your trunk. “Thanks, Brenna!”

You hurry from the room, feeling the flush up your neck, the flames in your cheeks. Holy shit, that was awkward.

“Idiot,” you hiss to yourself, jogging down the corridor toward the common room. You can’t make mistakes like that if this is going to work.

You find Benji and Colin by the fireplace, heads together, deep in talks.

“[Last name]!” Colin calls, and you head toward them.

You spend the next couple hours discussing the task. Both boys wonder where you were, and you maintain your stupid reading story, despite the fact that it’s nigh-unbelievable. The event sounds _fascinating,_ and had you been doing anything besides hooking up with Severus Snape, you would sincerely regret missing it. You listen, rapt, as Colin describes Potter’s miraculous broom chase and Krum’s daring fight. Benji is focused on Fleur Delacour, the Beauxbatons champion.

“The _eyes_ on that girl,” he says. “So intense. I think I’ll make an effort to find some French acquaintances. Facilitate our introduction.”

You leave them when it’s time to do your Felix Felicis maintenance, though truthfully you’re nervous about seeing Severus so soon after your fantastic afternoon together. How will your dynamic be? What if he regrets it? What if he gets all weird and decides to start the whole cycle of trying to distance you again?

When you get to his office door, your heart sinks. There’s a note attached to it, scribed with his spidery, elegant writing.

_[Last name],_

_I cannot be present for the potion maintenance tonight. Go in and do your job. Instructions on the desk. Lock up when you are finished._

_Prof. Snape._

Unease and disappointment blossom in your chest. What doesn’t _this_ mean? Is he seriously avoiding you? Already?

Immediately a little pissed, you throw open his office door and stomp inside. The _bastard._ He can’t do this to you, not again! God he’s so pig-headed, so _unfair..._

That’s when you see the note he left by the cauldron. _Letter,_ actually. It takes up a whole piece of parchment. Oh God. He’s breaking it off again. He’s rethought the whole thing. How soon afterwards did he regret your love-making? Immediately? Or did it take a few hours?

Trembling—with rage, with fear, with sadness—you pick up the letter and read.

_[First name],_

_Believe me when I say, I regret that I cannot be here with you tonight. The headmaster has called a staff meeting, and I am obligated to attend it. I suppose apologizing to you is something I am used to at this point, but I hope you are not disappointed. I am. Had I any say in it, I would have spent this time with you._

_Though perhaps it is for the best. I fear that I would not express myself to you fully in person, or even well. So please excuse the length of this letter. I have many things I wish to say._

_First, let me say this: what we did this afternoon was a mistake. And before you tear this paper in half and throw it away in frustration, let me add that I don’t regret it. Though I know I should. Of course you know this is unwise and imprudent. Not to mention the ethics of it. My rational side is screaming at me to end this, to push you away. That is what I_ _should_ _do, make no mistake. But for a reason I cannot understand, I can’t force myself to._

_I think you were right when you said there is something between us. Something valuable. Something which I have not felt for a very long time. And I am unwilling to let you go. Like you, I have decided to pursue this. Wisdom be damned._

_I caution you, however. I am not a man who makes a habit of following his desires. I do not take risks lightly. It will be...difficult. You will likely be frustrated with me, often. And if I see that this may be ruinous, for either of us, I will end it. We must be careful, [First name]. We must hide. We must not allow so much as a single person’s suspicion._ _No one_ _can find out. But I am sure you know that._

_Look at this. Vague declarations of passion interspersed with warnings and lectures. A terrible excuse for a love letter._

_But let me assure you of something. I may rarely, even never, spew words of affection or express my deepest feelings. I can barely bring myself to write this. But you fascinate me, [First name]. I want you. And despite myself, I hope you feel the same._

_I look forward to seeing you tomorrow._

_Yours,_

_S._

_PS Do not forget the potion._

Beaming, you clutch his letter to your chest. What a _relief._ Despite his misgivings, you’re hopeful that this can work. You _know_ it can.

You take a long second to close your eyes and bask in sheer bliss. You fold up the parchment carefully and slip it into your bra for safe-keeping, close to your heart.

Then, remembering his postscript, you turn toward the cauldron and get to work.

* * *

Snape wakes the next morning with a strange, warm feeling in his chest. A feeling he’s not used to having. He rolls over in his bed and stares at the rough stone ceiling, finding a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. _That damnable girl._

He allows you to fill his mind for a long moment—your lovely body, the sweet taste of your lips, your eyes. He reaches over to his bedside table and picks up the folded parchment he placed there. Unfolding it, he reads your note for the thousandth time since last night, when he returned to his office to find it on his desk. Short and sweet, where his was long-winded and drab, it reads simply as follows:

_You, my S, are absolutely incredible._

_-[First name]_

You left a lipstick stain below it, lips pressed to the paper in a kiss.

Snape smiles at it, then scoffs at himself. Like a schoolboy with a crush. Absurd.

Sighing, he starts folding up the note in a determined way when his gaze shifts down slightly, and he freezes. His bare forearm is raised before him, and for the first time in multiple weeks, he actually notices the symbol there.

His Dark Mark. He’s been so distracted, he hasn’t even thought of the pain streaking through it earlier that summer. Not for months. And now, looking at it, his heart sinks. 

It used to be faded, barely the shadow of the tattoo he got at nineteen. But now it’s...dark. Dark as its name, darker than it has been for _years._ The lines stand out against his pale skin in stark black, blatant. A death’s head, a snake weaving in and out of the mouth and eye sockets. Impossible now to ignore.

What does it mean? How long has it been this way? Fool that he is, you are all that has been on his mind. He ignored this, didn’t even notice. Unacceptable. Unforgivable.

Snape covers his eyes with one hand, groaning. Speaking of you, how exactly is he planning on hiding this? He’s kept it covered since meeting you, and even at the beginning of the school year it was faint enough that you might not have noticed. There’s no chance of that now. And there’s no chance you won’t recognize it. You will see it, and you will know exactly what he is.

 _What I_ used _to be._

 _What you_ are _, you fool, despite your wishful thinking_.

He can’t erase his past. He can’t forgive it. Though he regrets it more than anything else in his life; though he’s no longer the man he used to be; though he certainly no longer has the perverted and horrible values he used to. Still, it is part of him. And he does not deserve for it to be forgotten.

Snape looks back to his Dark Mark, narrowing his eyes. Then he sits up and quickly leaves his bed. It’s time to do something about this.

He has to speak to Dumbledore.

* * *

You spend a long time getting ready that morning.

You don’t really know why. He’s already seen you at your worst—sweaty, stained with potion, hair everywhere. But you suppose looking good will only help the butterflies in your stomach. So you style your hair and wing your eyeliner and pull your skirt a little higher than it should be. Then, taking a deep breath, you march from the dormitory.

“Damn, [Last name].”

You’re greeted by Benji and Colin as soon as you make your way into the Entrance Hall. They stand talking to a few people you don’t recognize, and you approach the group. Benji slings a casual arm around your shoulder, looking you appreciatively up and down.

“You look good this morning,” he says, grinning wolfishly. “Did you get laid last night? You’re practically glowing.” You roll your eyes and elbow him, though your stomach flip-flops at his eerily accurate guess.

“I’m always glowing, Zabini,” you reply. “And how dare you insinuate otherwise.”

Benji laughs good-naturedly and motions to the strangers in the group. “Want you to meet our new friends,” he says. “From Beauxbatons. This is Remy, Victoire, and Alexandre.” 

You turn to smile at the French kids as Benji continues introductions. Remy is short and willowy, blond hair and green eyes. You’re told he’s the best Seeker Beauxbatons has seen in a century.

Victoire is a gorgeous girl with chocolate skin and wild black hair. Benji is obviously smitten with her. His plan _was_ to meet Beauxbatons students in order to facilitate his introduction to Fleur Delacour, but this girl made him forget that. You like Victoire instantly. She’s sweet, yes, but she’s also _smart,_ and that’s evident as soon as you speak to her.

And then there’s Alexandre. You recognize him instantly as the French guy who smiled at you when Beauxbatons first arrived at Hogwarts. He’s tall, strong but slender, with olive skin and a hawkish nose. His dark hair is pushed back in an effortlessly tousled way, and his eyes are strikingly green.

 _If I wasn’t with Severus Snape_ , you think as Alex pulls you forward and kisses one cheek, then the other, _I would be drooling._

“I’m especially happy to meet you,” Alex tells you gently in that annoyingly cute accent of his as you pull apart. You can’t help the flush that rises up your cheeks.

“Oh,” you say. “Yeah. Same.” He gives you a sly smirk, his hands lingering on your elbows briefly. You’re grinning like an idiot. Man, he’s hot.

At this moment, a tall figure in black robes crosses the hall behind Alex, and you forget all about him. However cute French boys are, the man you have your eyes on now manages to blow them out of the water.

Severus is looking good this morning. His pale face, with those black eyes and sharp cheekbones, is striking against the slim black suit he wears. You love watching him when he’s not aware of you. He looks serious now, pensive, a crease between his expressive brows as he paces slowly toward the Great Hall. Then those incisive black eyes flick your way, and you smile at him and wave. He nods in return.

Benji notices the direction of your gaze, and he turns.

“Hey, Professor!” he calls. Severus immediately tears his gaze from you and nods to him. Giddily, you notice that he is changing his direction, coming over to speak to your group.

“Good morning,” he says as he approaches. His eyes linger on you, and you have to resist the urge to tell him, _It’s an even better morning now._

“We were just talking,” Benji says. “Victoire and Alex here are majorly into Potions as well. We were wondering if we could, you know, invite them along to group tonight. See what we’re cooking up.”

You hold Severus’ dark gaze through most of this, and you’re sure heated thoughts are passing between you. You’re sorry when he turns his eyes toward Benji.

Only then do you notice how close Alex is standing to you. When you feel his hand come out to rest on the small of your back, you jump. But he keeps it there, sidling closer.

_Uh oh._

“Yes,” Alex says, grinning. “We would love to see what the Hogwarts _dungeons_ have to offer.” You don’t love the smugness in his tone, as if he’s far above making potions in a dungeon. Nor do you like the way his hand is rubbing across your back, just above your ass, as he says it. He _is_ forward, isn’t he?

“They’re great,” you say, leaning away from him. “Really well stocked. Really good atmosphere.” You watch Severus’s sharp black gaze flick down to Alex’s arm, disappearing behind you. His mouth tightens almost imperceptibly.

“I would have to discuss it with Madame Maxime,” he begins, only to be cut off by Alex again.

“We’ve already done that,” he replies. There’s a bit of impertinence in his tone. “She says it is okay.”

“Alexandre Arseneau, correct?” Severus asks, his face darkening. He doesn’t like the kid’s tone, either.

“ _Oui, monsieur,_ ” Alex replies. His hand against your back has stilled.

“As I just said,” Severus goes on, “I shall discuss it with your headmistress. Though I...appreciate your tenacity.” His eyes flick down to Alex’s arm behind your back again. And it’s clear by his tone that he doesn’t appreciate the tenacity at all.

Then, with no more adieu, he nods briefly at you, Colin and Benji and strides away.

“He’s very friendly, isn’t he?” Victoire says, smirking at Benji, who shrugs.

“It takes a while to get to know him,” Colin says. “But he’s a really good teacher.”

“He’s great, actually,” you add, fully pulling away from Alex and his forward hand, which has almost-imperceptibly been sliding down toward your ass. 

“Yeah, [First name], we all know you’re in love with him,” Benji says, rolling his eyes. You start violently, turning wide eyes to him. A cold creep of horror trickles down your spine.

“What?” you say, and your voice is too high, too reedy. “No, I’m not.”

“Oh la la,” Remy says, smiling good naturedly. “Doth she protest too much?”

“Holy shit, you totally are!” Colin says, laughing. “Blimey, we’d kind of joked about it, cuz it’s clear you two get along. But you do have an actual _crush_ on Snape, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t!” you insist, looking in horror between them. You don’t think they actually suspect—they’re just teasing you. But it makes you rethink the way you speak and act around Severus. Are you _that_ obvious?

Colin is utterly amused, though Benji looks slightly concerned.

“I hope not, [Last name],” Benji says. “I’d hate to see you so utterly disappointed. The man’s too anal-retentive. I don’t think he’s been laid in a century. He’d have no idea what to do with a girl like you.”

A laugh bursts from your mouth, and you cover your lips with your hand while it sweeps through you. It’s half-panic, half genuine amusement at the irony of this conversation. It goes on a little too long, but when you recover, you’re relieved to find you feel a bit calmer.

“No,” you say, still giggling. “No, you’re totally right. Honestly, I’ve barely noticed that Snape is male, much less thought about him in _that_ way.” You point back and forth between Benji and Colin. “You two are disgusting bastards, you know that?”

“Well, that actually raises an important question,” Benji says as the group begins to move into the Great Hall for breakfast. “It’s been nearly three months since start of term. If you’re not holding out for our Potions Master, why the hell aren’t you dating someone?”

“You’ve been hanging with Weasley a lot, haven’t you?” Colin adds. He nudges you. “What’s going on there?”

“Me and George?” you say, laughing. Sure, you like George. But he’s no Severus. “I think I’m a bit old for him already. Besides—”

“You’re too in love with Snape?” Benji interrupts, and you elbow him in the ribs.

“Can we drop the ‘[First name] loves Snape’ talk?” you say. “It’s actually making me sick.”

“Fine,” Benji says, laughing. “So if not Weasley, why haven’t you gone for someone else? You’d have your pick.” You smile. That's sweet of him.

“I don’t know, Benji,” you reply. “I spend most of my time with you and Colin. Colin’s taken and you’re...you.” 

“What is that supposed to mean, [Last name]?” Benji says, throwing an arm over Victoire and sliding them into a spot at the Slytherin table. You sit down next to them, and Alex is quick to snatch a seat at your side.

You sigh wistfully. “It means you’re too damn good for me, Zabini.” 

It gets a laugh, and you laugh along, even as you feel Alex’s arm snake out and encircle your waist. Dude is seriously forward. If you were single, you would’ve loved it. And…

You glance up at the teacher’s table, where Severus sits, chatting with McGonagall. Maybe you should let this play out a little, feign interest in this handsome French boy. It would keep questions about your feelings for Severus away. You don’t want to toy with any emotions, but you’re all about self-preservation right now. And it has to be Alex, because Benji is right—the other option is George, and you’ll be _damned_ if you lead him on. You care for him too much. 

So you lean into Alex’s shoulder a little and turn to smile at him.

“Besides,” you say, “maybe it’s a good thing I held out.”


	18. You ARE my teacher, sir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter here. Don't get used to it! We're back to shorter lengths in the future. I just...didn't know where to stop.
> 
> I stole a Snape line from A Very Potter Sequel...can you spot it? lmao
> 
> Also I stole the potion here from Advanced Potion Making by Noel Green. I think the book is another unofficial fan thing, but the author seems to know what they're talking about. And despite being a Snape stan and practicing witchcraft in my spare time, I know very little about HP potions.
> 
> Um...oh yeah. There's smut here. So maybe don't read this in public. Unless you're into that.
> 
> As usual, your comments give me life. I love you, my babies.

* * *

_'Cause I'd rot in Hell with you  
_ _If you just asked me to.  
_ _I love the shitty things we do together.  
_ _Live with me in this sin forever.  
_ _Hell and you,  
_ _I know you want it, too.  
_ _I say we take this shot, see this chance  
_ _Feel the fire and let me have this  
_ _Dance with you._

"Hell and You" - Amigo the Devil

* * *

Snape’s meeting with Dumbledore does not ease his mind as he feels it should. The headmaster gazes at him over his long nose with a tranquil expression as Snape shows him the Dark Mark, explains the flashes of pain in his forearm. Explains his fears that the Dark Lord is returning.

“Yes,” Dumbledore replies impassively. “Your concerns are not unfounded, as usual, Severus.”

“Well, what do we _do?”_ Snape hisses.

“What _can_ we do?” Dumbledore says.

“Search him out. _Find_ him, before he gets stronger.”

“I am needed at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore says gently. “Of course I will keep my ears and eyes open, but such a journey strikes me as futile.”

“Send me then,” Snape replies. He would go in a heartbeat, and it wouldn’t matter that he would miss you. “I’ll go. I’ll use whatever connections I still have—”

“You are needed here, too,” Dumbledore cuts him off, looking amused. “Though I appreciate your bravery.”

“It’s not about _bravery,"_ Snape snaps, striding toward him desperately. “Albus, this—”

“We watch,” Dumbledore interrupts firmly, “and we wait. And we guard our home.”

So Snape leaves the headmaster’s office in a dark mood. Something horrible is coming, and knowing that does not help in any way. 

He tries to distract himself with classes, and does indeed keep his promise to speak to Madame Maxime about allowing her students to attend Advanced Potions Club. Truthfully, he does not want them to. That French boy has a clear interest in you, and he does not trust him to keep his hands to himself.

Unfortunately, Maxime is all too enthusiastic at the prospect. Snape grits his teeth, dreading this evening. But at least your presence will keep it from being a complete loss.

Speaking of you, Snape slows as he comes into the Entrance Hall. You are standing by the base of the stairs, once more speaking to Fred and George Weasley. He watches as you throw your head back and laugh. You really seem to like the twins, for a reason quite beyond him. But at least they’re not touching you.

The twins wave goodbye, jogging up the stairs toward their next class, and you finally turn toward the dungeon. Your eyes light up as soon as you see Snape there—he paused for a few seconds in hopes of this exact circumstance—and you hurry toward him. He gives you a small smile, so faint it’s barely there, and lifts an eyebrow.

You’re only a few yards away when someone intercepts you, grabbing you around the waist from behind and spinning you around. Your look of happiness fades into one of confusion as you’re pulled back into the arms of that sodding French boy, Alexandre Arseneau.

He laughs as you disentangle yourself from him, and you smile back, but Snape can tell it’s strained. You glance over your shoulder at your professor, who crosses his arms.

Alex, meanwhile, is all hands. He toys with a piece of your hair before tucking it back behind your ear, doubtlessly saying sweet things in a romantic accent. And you giggle and blush prettily, waving him off and taking a step back. Snape frowns when he closes the distance between you again. The boy is forward, almost inappropriately so.

When the boy wraps his arms fully around you, Snape’s frown deepens. You place a hand on Arseneau’s chest to fend him off, but it has very little effect. Snape approaches the pair of you, watching coldly as the boy continues flirting (or moderately assaulting) and you continue pushing against his chest.

“I don’t think so,” you’re saying as he gets within earshot, and Arseneau lifts up one of your hands and presses it to his mouth. You pull it away quickly, but you’re laughing, and Snape would prefer that you snarl.

“[Last name],” he says, arriving behind you. You gasp and spin around, finally ripping completely away from the French boy, who stares at Snape coldly. 

“Professor!” you say, a hint of panic in your tone. Snape’s lip twitches, but he prevents the smirk from forming. 

“And Arseneau,” he says, transferring his disapproving look to the French boy. “Funny how often we’re running into each other today.” You surreptitiously step away from the boy, watching the interaction.

“Hello, _monsieur,”_ Arseneau replies, clipped.

“If I recall correctly,” Snape continues, “Beauxbatons attends classes on the fourth floor. Does it not?”

The boy’s expression flickers. Concern. _“Oui.”_

“Then shouldn’t you be on your way there?” he asks. He glances at you again, eyes lidded. “Instead of...fondling my students in the Entrance Hall.” You duck your head, clearly irritated, which almost makes him smile.

“I was actually looking for you, _monsieur,”_ Arseneau says impertinently. Snape raises an eyebrow. “I was wondering if you’ve spoken to my headmistress. About Potions Club tonight.”

“I have,” Snape replies, folding his arms. “She was...amenable.”

 _“Excellente,”_ Arseneau says, nudging you. You send him a terse smile. “Then I will let the others know.”

“How...marvelous,” Snape replies, flat and deeply sarcastic. He catches your look of amusement before you purse your lips and look away, clearly trying not to laugh. “I simply cannot wait.”

“Right,” Arseneau replies, also glancing at you, seeming annoyed that you’re not coming to his aid. “Well...” He turns to you fully and, to Snape’s utter displeasure, grabs your hand and lays another kiss on your knuckles. “I’ll see you around?”

“Sure,” you say lightly, your smile false, pulling away from him. He throws you what females must consider a charming grin—to Snape it looks somewhat conniving—before nodding at Snape and hurrying off.

You sigh, glancing around the mostly empty Hall, and your shoulders finally drop.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper. “Thanks.” You smile. “It’s good to see you.”

You go to move a little closer to him, but Snape is all too aware of the other students milling about—however scarce they might be. And the pair of you must be more careful now than ever before.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he drawls. You stop in your tracks, surprised, and narrow your eyes at him. He merely raises his brows in return, which makes you scoff and turn around.

“See you in class, Professor,” you say, walking toward the library for your free period. He watches you for a moment, eyes grazing along your legs under that school skirt, before turning and sweeping away.

He replays the last few minutes in his head. He didn’t like seeing that. He doesn’t understand how this boy is suddenly in your life, putting his hands on you. He’s sure you were not even aware of him at Halloween. But perhaps you went to him for comfort during the past month, when the two of you weren’t speaking. The idea makes Snape curl his fingers into fists. He’ll have to speak to you about it.

Around the next corner, he comes into an empty hallway and allows himself to lean back against the wall, pressing his fingers against his forehead. This is already exhausting. It’s dangerous and maddening and unethical. And then here you are, flirting with other boys, allowing yourself to be groped under his gaze. Acting as if this ridiculous affair is not even happening. 

What the hell is he _doing?_

Eyes closed, flashes of you run through his head. Your soft skin, your breath in his ear, your wicked grins, your laughter. The way you smirk when you say something wry. The way you always stand up to him. The myriad of ways you match him.

What is he doing? He’s pursuing the most fascinating, frustrating, clever, _alluring_ woman he’s met in over a decade. And a bloody _boy_ is not going to make him jealous.

After all, just yesterday, Snape was the one making you gasp and squirm. It’s simply a matter of reminding you that you are his. Because for however long this ridiculous affair of yours lasts—and frankly, he can’t see it lasting long, for so many reasons—he will not share you.

* * *

As soon as you walk into the Potions classroom, you’re a bundle of nerves. No one else is here yet, including Severus, which is both a disappointment and a relief. You have a secret now, and this is your first big test of it. You have to interact for the next two hours and not arouse suspicion. You know Severus can do it—he just has to be his usual spiky self and no one will think twice.

But can you? Will you be able to look at his slim body up there at the chalkboard and _not_ think about how he recently took you roughly in a public place, as if he simply couldn’t help himself anymore?

What if you accidentally flirt? What if you call him by his first name? Speak back? Pay him too much attention? How much is too much?

Oh god...You put your face down on the desk, groaning. This might actually be hell.

Behind you, the door opens and you hear a pair of footsteps. Not his. Not rapid enough.

“Alright, [Last name]?” Colin asks, sliding into the seat next to you and nudging you. You nod into your arms, refusing to look up. Then Benji is there, walking up behind you and massaging your shoulders.

“Whassa matter?” he asks. You have to smile. These two are such good friends to you. It’s amazing how close you’ve gotten in only a few months.

You groan as Benji’s thumb hits a good spot. “Just tired. Sprout had us potting Shrivelfigs today — had to Scourgify the shit out of my nails. There’s _still_ dirt under there.”

“Poor baby,” Benji coos. You can hear the grin in his voice even as his hands keep working your shoulders.

“This is a classroom, Zabini, not a massage parlor.” The deep voice coming from over by the door jerks you out of your relaxation. Benji’s hands are instantly gone from your shoulders. Your Potions Master strides to the front of the classroom, his robes billowing behind him. As Benji slides quickly into his chair, you watch Severus’ face. Impassive. Like he doesn’t give a shit.

 _He probably doesn’t,_ you figure. Severus isn’t a little boy. He knows exactly what he can do to a woman with his hands and his mouth. It’ll probably be hard to get him jealous—not that you’re planning to try.

“Now,” he says from the front of the class, regarding his students with incisive black eyes. “As you are all doubtlessly aware, your N.E.W.T.s are six months away.”

Anxiety washes over you, as it always does when your teachers mention the N.E.W.T.s. You’re doing well in your classes, but the tests are notorious for their curve balls.

Severus seems to read your mind. “The good news for the seven of you,” he continues, “is that we have already covered the majority of the potions on that exam, either this year in class and Club, or in your sixth year.” His eyes lock onto you, and you shiver under that dark gaze. 

_Like a schoolgirl with a crush,_ you berate yourself. _Yesterday you were blowing his mind. Remember what a strong, independent woman you are._

But Severus’ penetrating gaze is reducing you to a nervous mess, especially as he says in that silky voice, “With the possible exception of Miss [Last name], who spent her sixth year at an American school.” He cocks an eyebrow, almost smirking. “As such, she must simply endeavour to keep. Up.”

“I’m sure I can handle it, sir,” you reply, earning a wink and a grin from Benji. Severus’ lips twitches, and he nods shortly, then looks away. First interaction complete. That didn’t go so bad, right?

“For these reasons,” Severus resumes, sweeping around his desk, “I have decided to teach you a potion that is usually not found on the N.E.W.T.s.” He sends a sharp glance at Maggie Thripp, the class’s only Hufflepuff, when she sits forward in her seat, intrigued. _"_ _Usually_ being the operative word here, Miss Thripp. So you may close your gaping mouth.”

Benji snorts—he has something against Maggie, which you don’t really understand. You elbow him and glare at Severus. He glances at you for an instant, but it doesn’t seem to affect him.

 _"Incrementa Sapientiae,”_ he announces, drawing his robes around himself as he folds his arms. Almost everyone in the room nods knowingly. You’ve all heard of it. Severus gestures at Finn. “Explain it to me, Grimsby.”

“Wisdom potion, sir,” Finn replies, leaning back cockily in his chair. “True wisdom. It’s one of the Nearly Impossibles.”

Nearly Impossible Potions — a category in _Advanced Potion Making_ that are said to be the hardest to brew. None of them are really that bad — not for this class’s expertise — most are just complex or finicky with timing and temperatures.

“Five points to Gryffindor,” Severus replies, heading back to the board. You glance at Finn, who looks surprised at the points. 

“Snape’s in a good mood today, eh?” Colin whispers. You smirk. Do you have something to do with that? Or is that reading too far into it?

Severus starts his lecture on the potion, going over the theory and a bit of brief history—it’s helpful to know a potion’s origins, as it hints at which methods you would be using. Chinese brewing techniques, for instance, differ from Scottish techniques, which differ from Egyptian. You’ve actually recently read about _Sapientiae,_ as you considered bringing it up in Club, so you’re pretty familiar with all this material.

As Severus continues his lecture, you let your eyes wander over him. You never want to stop. Tall, slender, dressed in black. Elegant fingers. Long black hair framing a pale face. Striking. Sexy.

You relax at your desk, unable to believe your luck. You’ve recently had sex with this incredible man. And here he is, commanding the room, sharing pieces of his knowledge with his students. He’s powerful and competent and _smart._ God is he smart. And so good with his hands...god, his hands...

Your wand is poised against your bottom lip, pulling it down a little. Your eyes are warm and dreamy. You vaguely hear Severus tell the class to begin the potion, feel your classmates go into action. But you just want to sit here staring. You’re sure it’s clear on your face, the wicked nature of your thoughts. You’re giving him a serious eye-fuck, but you honestly can’t help it.

Severus suddenly makes eye contact with you before his gaze flicks down to your mouth, to the wand still poised there, pulling your lower lip down—like an arrow saying “right here, please, sir.” He tilts his head, thoughtful, and his eyebrows pop up. He makes a quiet “hm” noise in his throat before turning away completely.

You flush, tingly and pleased with yourself. Then you stand and get to work.

You try your best to focus. You heat owl feathers over yellow flame and dust them with coarsely chopped hair, then get to work mixing hippogryph milk and dried Oraculum. When the time comes to drizzle the mixture over the feathers, however, you make the mistake of glancing over.

Severus is bent over Terrance’s cauldron, quietly discussing his potion, and you allow yourself a long moment to admire him. But he looks up, as if drawn by your gaze, and his sharp black eyes meet yours. You see something dark there, a flash of desire. He raises one jet-black brow.

You realize you’re staring. You jolt, and the milk sloshes over, soaking the feathers in one fell swoop. You growl under your breath—the instructions clearly say to _slowly drizzle._

Blowing out your cheeks, you check your book, repositioning yourself at the cauldron. Maybe you can salvage this. The owl feathers have to be chilled for an hour...perhaps if you lower the temperature in increments, introduce a bit of negentropy to the process. It could work...in a broad theory sort of way. Maybe.

“[Last name].”

You glance up, startled. Severus is at your cauldron, examining the brew with cold eyes. 

“Your owl feathers seem to be...utterly saturated,” he says. 

_Dick,_ you think, somewhat smugly.

“Yeah,” you say thoughtfully, looking back down at the mess. “I was thinking, maybe if I slow the freezing process a little...” You glance up, wondering if this would work, but his face gives nothing away. You sigh. “Or maybe just...start over.”

“You will not have time,” Severus replies. “I expect the potion to be complete by the end of class.”

And he sweeps away, leaving you somewhat affronted. He’s not a patient teacher, but you’ve never been the target of his ice like this. He usually has _some_ kind of helpful advice when a mistake is made, even if it is delivered with a sneer. Is this the price of sleeping with him?

_Worth it._

“What was that about Snape being in a good mood, Colin?” Benji asks, leaning over from where he’s just finished drizzling his milk. He’s smirking. You stick your tongue out at him.

“Slow the freezing process?” Colin asks you, looking over. “I get the logic—try to balance the entropy in the system. Really think that’ll work?”

You look down at your cauldron, scowling. “It’ll work,” you snarl.

You go about chilling the feathers, lowering the temperature in ten degree increments until it reaches freezing. Then you put them aside, and for the next hour boil black root, fold in turtle eggs and crumble dried rose petals. 

When you come back to add the feathers, they’re glistening with ice crystals. You glance over at Colin’s—his are frozen solid. Benji’s, meanwhile, are shimmering with white frost. Which is right?

Cursing, you dump the feathers into your brew. You spend the next hour tending to the potion before finally burning the pages of an old textbook and adding the ashes. Then you remove it from the heat and look down glumbly.

The others’ potions are dark midnight, shimmering. Yours is matte baby blue. You quickly cover it with the cauldron’s lid.

Severus sweeps up to your desk then, twitching the lid aside with a dextrous finger. He gives you a black look before letting it drop back down. You push your sweaty hair back from your forehead.

“You don’t have to say it,” you say before he has a chance to speak. He quirks a brow, and you remember to be formal. “Sir. I know I screwed up.”

“Vanish this rot,” he tells you. “And five points from Slytherin for your inability to follow simple instructions.”

You slump back into your chair once he leaves, vaguely waving your wand to erase the mess from existence. A fail. The worst performance of the term so far. The worst you’ve had, actually, in years. Benji scoots over, whistling low.

“Bad luck,” he says.

“My hand slipped,” you mutter. “And he’s being a real dick today.” You’re lowering her voice so it won’t reach Severus, but apparently it’s not low enough.

“See me after class, [Last name],” he says from where he’s leaning on his desk, not even looking at you. You cringe. He doesn’t sound angry—he just sounds bored. But this isn’t good.

Benji and Colin give you looks of condolence and flee as quickly as they can. The rest trickle out behind them. Julia stays back a little, worrying over her own potion, before Severus impatiently assures her it is acceptable. Glancing at you, she mouths _I’m sorry._ And then she’s gone too, the door clicking shut behind her.

You look up at Severus, who removes his cloak, revealing all black beneath—black slacks, black collared shirt, black buttoned vest (which molds beautifully to his slim frame). He drapes the cloak over his chair and comes back to the front of the desk, sighing as your eyes sweep over him. He leans against its surface, watching you with an inscrutable expression.

“Miss [Last name],” he says, folding his arms forbiddingly across his chest. “What am I going to do with you?”

And one corner of his mouth raises in a small smirk.

* * *

You visibly relax when you see he is not angry. It surprises him, too, but all he really feels at your mess of a potion and your utterance to Zabini is amusement.

“Sorry about the dick comment,” you say, grimacing. “I was frustrated.” Snape pushes away from his desk to pace slowly closer, watching your eyes rove up and down his form. Watching you get ideas. 

“It wasn’t the most eloquent thing I’ve heard come out of that pretty mouth of yours,” he admits, taking another step. “Though also not the most obscene.”

You laugh, bite your full lower lip. He watches you consider him—attraction and lust and something close to timidity. You look at him like he has power over you and you like it. He likes it too.

He towers over you in your chair, the energy between you palpable. With a flick of his wand, the door behind you locks. You jump, looking at it over your shoulder. Snape’s other hand shoots out, quickly cupping your chin, turning you forcibly to look up into his black eyes.

There is heat there. Anticipation. He feels you shiver under his fingers, and he has to suppress a groan of arousal.

“In all honesty,” he tells you softly, “it was good. Finally treating me like I’m your teacher.” He smirks, rubbing his thumb over your lower lip. “The irony.”

“You _are_ my teacher, sir,” you reply cheekily, and Snape pops his thumb into your wet mouth for an instant. Just to shut you up.

With his opposite hand, still holding his wand, he wrenches your hair back as he steps closer, forcing you to crane to look up at him. You let loose a strangled cry, surprise and arousal, and Snape smirks. He releases your hair and points his wand at the door.

 _"Muffliato,”_ he whispers. You frown.

“What’s that?”

“A spell of my own creation,” Snape replies. “So that no one can hear us from outside.” 

He’d pay actual galleons to this look in your eyes more often. Excitement, heat, as his words sink in and you realize the implications. The promise to make you scream. You lick your lips, staring into his eyes, your pupils fully enlarged.

“I’ll have to learn that one,” you whisper. Snape smirks.

“Perhaps I’ll teach you,” he says. The hand at your chin trails down to your throat, skimming under your tie to the top buttons of your uniform. He quickly pops one open, then another. “But not today.”

His long-fingered hand closes around the knot of your school tie, and he tugs you to your feet. You come up swiftly against him, and he immediately meets your mouth with his. You moan prettily, lips opening, your tongue already being bad. He tugs you closer by the tie, and the kiss becomes sensuous. 

He wants to taste you. Drink you in.

His hands fill themselves with your body, sliding over your torso, your skin soft and pliant beneath his palms. You moan again.

“Does this mean I’m not in trouble for the potion?” you ask against his lips. Snape sneers.

“Oh, you’re in trouble,” he replies, voice deep and throaty. And he spins you around to push you backwards against his desk, swallowing your cry of surprise. An inkwell and a few candles topple over, but that seems par for the course and more than worth it, especially as you brace yourself on his desk and wrap your creamy thighs around his slender hips.

“That boy had his hands all over you today,” Snape growls into your ear, pulling you roughly into him. You frown.

“Who? Benji?” 

He feels a rush of irritation, that there is more than one option. Of course there is. You’re a beautiful girl, and he’s not the only one who’s noticed.

“Arseneau,” Snape says, meeting your eye, expression dangerous. “The French boy.”

“Oh, him,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “He’s handsy.” Then you smirk evilly. “Why? Jealous?”

Snape growls, wrenching your hair back, making you gasp. “I don’t. Like it.”

“Me neither,” you whisper “But I figured...it’s a good front, right? Let them think I’m interested. Keep suspicion away from us.”

You cry out when Snape tugs you firmly against him again, meeting your eye intently.

“You will not let him touch you,” he demands. You nod, like that is obvious.

“I don’t want anyone touching me but you.”

It satisfies him for now. Snape smirks, moving to flick his tongue at your throat. “Good girl,” he says.

Quickly, his hands slide under your skirt at either side of your hips, finding the lace of your panties and tugging them down your thighs. You kick them off impatiently, then gasp as he forces your bodies together again, both hands gripping the sides of your ass.

You’re soft and supple, moving easily however he wants you to, guided by his large hands. He likes your submission, but only because he knows you to be something of a brat. He knows you’ll immediately complain if he asks you to do something you don’t want to.

He pushes his hips against you, feeling the heat of your naked flesh between your thighs. Your hands fly up to his sable vest, working at the buttons. Impatient, Snape swats them away. You seeing him shirtless would involve a conversation about his Dark Mark, and that can certainly wait. Of course, he knows he’ll have to tell you at some point, but he really can’t think of a better way to kill the mood.

Your eyes narrow shrewdly, and you pull away from his kiss to cock your head at him. Then your hands go to his buttons again.

Sneering, Snape grabs both of your wrists and forces them behind your back. “We have very little time,” he whispers by way of explanation. Then he pulls you by the wrists so that you lie back on his desk, hair splayed out beautifully around you.

Immediately contradicting himself, Snape transfers both of your wrists to one broad hand and rips your shirt open with the other. A button pops off and you gasp, trying to sit up, but he forces you down with his body over yours. His thigh catches under yours as he brings his knee up to brace on the desk, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist.

Then his mouth is at your neck, and one hand fills itself with your warm breast, toying with your nipple between two fingers. You’re gasping and squirming, letting him keep your arms behind you, and Snape moves his hand down your body, feeling every warm curve.

He reaches between you, under your skirt, and finds your sensitive little nub with his fingers. He keeps a steady rhythm against it, leaning back to watch your eyes.

You moan at his gaze and the pressure, trying to reach up to kiss him, but he evades your lips. His middle finger slides down, sweeping over slick folds a few times before slowly dipping inside. He laughs at your responsive gasp—you’re so easy to pleasure. He’s barely scratched the surface.

Snape continues stroking you with his long fingers, pressed up close to you, until you’re red in the face and panting in his ear. Whispering, “Please—god, sir, _please.”_

Snape finally undoes his belt, releasing some pressure on his straining arousal. He hisses when you wrench one wrist away from him—he redoubles his grip on the other—and you reach down between your bodies to touch him.

“Did I say you could do that?” he asks roughly in your ear, making no moves to stop you. You just laugh.

“I have to ask permission?” you whisper, stroking your hand up and down. _“Sir.”_

“Yes,” Snape replies, impatiently removing your hand and pinning it beside your head. 

“Make me,” you gasp, trying to squirm away from his grip on both wrists, which simply tightens. Your pupils are huge, your face is glossy and pink. Just as he thought—submissive but a brat. Exactly what he likes.

Snape leans down to regard you firmly, feeling your body move beneath him. His breathing is a bit labored as he says, “You’ve always had an inordinately hard time following simple directions. I plan to teach you how.”

He watches the surprise and arousal cross your face for only an instant before he flips you forcibly onto your stomach. You cry out in shock, then cry out again when he pulls up your skirt and smacks a hand against your ass. It’s not hard—he has a feeling you’ll make his life hell if he causes any _real_ pain—but it’s enough to get you squirming.

“Spoiled little brats get punished,” he says lowly, smacking you again. Then he pushes two fingers inside of you, making you gasp.

“You call this punishment?” you shoot back snottily. Snape smirks, withdrawing his fingers before smacking you again, harder than before. The cry you give him has an actual hint of pain, but it is also thoroughly aroused.

“I promise, Miss [Last name],” Snape snarls, bending over so his words traveled directly into your ear, “you don’t want to _know_ what I call punishment.” 

A moment of silence as his fingers dip inside of you again. Finally, you’re out of comebacks. Snape smirks. He’s won. And you are hot and more than ready.

He is too. He reaches down and positions himself against you, then thrusts slowly inside.

Your moan is worth all of it — the stress, the worry, the secrecy. Snape lets himself feel you for a long moment, his hands gripping your ass while you accommodate yourself to his girth. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, breathless, pushing in. “Take it all.” You moan again, a sinful sound. 

Gritting his teeth, Snape begins to thrust, slowly at first, then picking up speed, faster and faster until you’re crying out and the desk is rocking precariously beneath you.

He grabs a chunk of your hair, pulling your head back and whispering into your ear: “Are you enjoying this?” He stops speaking just long enough to catch his breath, then: “You sound like you are.”

“Yeah—god,” you say. “God, sir.”

“Say my name,” Snape demands, one hand going to your throat.

“Severus,” you moan. “Sev.”

Snape bares his teeth, thrusting faster, feeling himself get close. “Yes,” he rasps. “Good girl—very good.”

And you clench around him, crying out in pleasure—something of a surprise, as he hasn’t really been focusing on anything but his own. The trembling of your supple body makes him groan, and he rears back momentarily to lift your leg onto the desk for a better angle. You move easily, already tired and pliable, and he goes faster, making you gasp.

He only lasts a few more moments, a hand tugging at your hair, forcing your head off the desk. He shudders to a halt over you, releasing your hair, and you slump, exhausted, down onto his desk.

Snape catches his breath, bracing against the table. He’s sweaty and wonderfully relaxed, and he rests his forehead between your shoulder blades. He feels you laugh beneath him, a vibration of your body, pushing your hair back from your face.

Then you suddenly stiffen beneath him. “Oh, shit!” you exclaim, scrambling to push him off. Snape frowns and backs away.

“What—”

“The Felix!” you cry, scrambling backwards off his desk, clumsily trying to right your skirt and scoop up your cloak and discarded underwear. Snape grits his teeth as he watches you jog toward his office. _Damn. The silly thing is right._

After all, it only takes one mistake to ruin a batch of Felix Felicis.


	19. Visions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright my loves, here's the deal. We've reached the end of what I have pre-written, so the updates are going to slow down a bit. I'll try to pump out chapters as fast as possible, but I do want this to be quality, so it probably won't be every day.
> 
> But I'll still be posting! So don't worry about that.
> 
> This chapter is pretty fluffy. But...but what's this I see? Plot?? Wow! Imagine.
> 
> Anyway, I love you. Be nice to yourself. You're perfect.

* * *

_And the vision that was planted in my brain  
_ _Still remains  
_ _Within the sound of silence._

"The Sound of Silence" - Simon and Garfunkle

* * *

You skid into Severus’ office, throwing your cloak and panties on your table before rushing to the potion. You glance at the clock—it’s five minutes past when you usually do this, but maybe there’s a bit of flexibility. 

Hurriedly, you complete the Felix maintenance, then step back from the cauldron, biting the inside of your cheek as you compare its consistency to your notes.

Looking over, you catch sight of Severus leaning in the doorway, watching you with folded arms.

“It’s okay,” you assure him, breathless. “I think. It still looks good. Golden. Shimmery. Not much different from yesterday.”

You expect him to come over and check your work, but he doesn’t. Instead, Severus sighs and closes his eyes, massaging his temples.

“We cannot do this,” he says lowly. You stare at him, affronted. _Oh no he did not._

“I didn’t start it,” you remind him defensively. “You can’t punish _me_ for something _you_ started.” You round on him, ready to argue. Ready to fight for this. _What else is new?_ “You’re so eager to call things off—you know, if _you_ don’t want to do this, just say so. Don’t hide behind shit we already know is going to be difficult.”

Severus lets you finish before he drops his hands, meeting your eye, something smug about his face.

“I simply meant,” he says, “we need to establish ground rules.” He smirks, looking you over. “Though I must say, your passion is...flattering.”

“Shut up,” you shoot back, laughing. You sigh, deciding to just be straight with him. “I’m guess I’m just bracing for you to take it all back.”

Severus looks thoughtful, almost confused by that. Then he strides forward to wrap you in his arms. You sigh, feeling the silent strength of him—firm arms, broad shoulders, despite his litheness. He smells like herbs and parchment, old leather books and chalk dust.

“Why would I do that,” he whispers, resting his chin on the top of your head, “when we’ve just begun?” He pulls back, holding you at arms’ length, black eyes examining you seriously. “I’ll endeavour to be fair to you, [First name]. If we must break this off, I daresay we’ll both see it coming.”

“Can you just promise we’ll have a calm, adult conversation about it, if it happens?” you ask.

“ _I_ certainly will,” Severus replies. He’s still smirking, damn him. “You however...” You laugh, pulling away from him, shaking your head. “I can’t be sure.”

“Why do I even have a crush on you?” you say jokingly, turning away from him to note the Felix’s condition in its notebook. From behind you, Severus shifts and folds his arms.

“Perhaps you’re a masochist,” he says sarcastically. You shoot him a grin over your shoulder.

“Apparently,” you say, making a final stroke of the pen before dropping it, sighing and pushing a hand through your hair. “Though, if that’s how we’re judging it, you probably are too.” 

Severus’s eyebrows raise, a look of false-surprise. “What do you mean by that?” he asks, dripping irony. “No, [Last name], _my_ life has been utterly painless since your arrival here.” You laugh, coming forward to tug playfully at his folded arms, trying to get him to hold you again. He backs away, his smirk raising into a genuine smile. “You certainly haven’t complicated _everything._ ”

You grin, oddly pleased by the sarcastic comment. If you complicate everything about his life, his feelings probably run pretty deep. Right?

_Don’t overthink it._

You dance up to him and lay a gentle kiss on his lips, stopping in your tracks when he exhales and unfolds his arms to cup the back of your head dominantly in his hand. When you pull back, his dark eyes are burning, the smirk still playing around his lips.

“I’m worth it though, right?” you say. He rolls his eyes.

“You’d better be,” he replies, and you nudge his arm. The response leaves you a bit cold. Though Severus Snape certainly isn’t the _sweet_ or _open_ type, would it kill him to give you a little compliment after fucking you over his desk?

Speaking of...

“So,” you say, pulling away, folding your arms around yourself, “you mentioned some rules.”

Severus nods, letting you, his hands going back to grip the edge of the desk behind him.

“I acted rashly,” he says. “But after yesterday...and you, sitting there with that damned wand against your lip...” He shakes his head, glancing away, his look a bit stormy. “I’m sure, in time, I'll get used to it. It will be nothing to restrain myself from touching you.” 

Even with that, his hand reaches out, his long white fingers sliding down your cheek, your jaw, your neck. He shakes his head, withdrawing his hand, and there’s a moment of silence. You feel he could say more—you want him too—but you know he won’t.

“I like it when you touch me,” you whisper, sidling up to him. The look he throws you is amused, but darkly so.

“You are not helping,” he says. 

You grin, leaning against the desk next to him and nudging his arm until he drapes it over your shoulder. 

“So I’m assuming one of the rules is, no sex directly after class.” You smirk. “At least until Felix Felicis is done.”

“We will not do that in the classroom again,” Severus says firmly, and you pout. “I have a mess to clean up, and it is not a particularly private place. Had a teacher needed to see me, they would think the locked door very odd.”

“But in your office?” you ask

“My office being locked is not unusual,” Severus replies, throwing a sidelong glance of amusement at you.

“I can swing with that,” you say.

“These are rules, [Last name], not a compromise.”

“Okay, okay,” you reply, waving that away. _We’ll see._ “Next.”

“This cannot distract either of us from our work,” Severus says. “You will not put off your studies to come to me, and I will not allow you to stay if I have work to do.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” you reply, knowing that’s just not going to happen. You frequently put off your studies for things like pumpkin pasties—no way are you letting it get in the way of incredible sex. Severus raises a black eyebrow disapprovingly, and you cock one back. 

“Why am I less than comforted?” he says.

“Listen,” you reply, leaning up to kiss his pale cheek. “I get it. We just have to be smart. No risks. I’ll break as few rules as I can, and you just keep acting like my big scary Potions Master.”

“You find me scary?” Severus asks, turning to you, sounding pleased. You widen your eyes.

“Terrifying.”

“At last, she admits it.”

You stay chatting for the next hour—after putting your underwear back on and doing up your shirt. One of your buttons is missing, but you don’t mention it to him. You like the idea of him finding it on his floor and remembering.

Severus keeps his distance—there’s no cuddling together in his office, not that you really expected it—and his door remains unlocked. But your dynamic has changed. For the better, you might add. He’s a bit quicker to smile, a bit looser with his tongue. Still guarded—you can’t imagine Severus not being guarded—but less so. He’s started peppering the words “damn” and “hell” into conversation, which he never did when you were platonic. He even makes a suggestive joke at one point and doesn’t roll his eyes when you laugh at it.

You’re laying on your desk near the Felix, lazily pontificating upon a novel he recently had you read. He’s nodding, shrugging—he liked it much more than you do, which is rare. You usually have fairly similar tastes in fiction. Both of you like mysteries and crime and horror. But this book is a little dry for you, and you hate the main character. Severus, though, finds him redeemable.

“He murders people,” you say. “And the gang he runs with? It’s gross.”

“But he abandons them at the end,” Severus replies mildly. “And he brings about their downfall.”

“Yeah, only after they murdered his stupid girlfriend,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “It’s not like he actually feels _bad_ for his actions. He’s just angry and obsessed.” 

There’s a moment of silence, curiously profound, and you look over at Severus to find him leaned back in his chair, staring hard at the ceiling. His look is dark, and it worries you.

“I believe,” he says quietly after some time, “he is truly sorry.”

You sit up. This hit some kind of nerve—you can tell. Maybe he likes this book more than he made out. Maybe he’s offended you don’t.

“Well, I hope so,” you reply gently. “I’d like him more if he were.”

Severus’ dark eyes meet yours across the room. “You do believe in redemption, then,” he says. 

You frown. Odd way to phrase it, but okay, Sev.

“Sure,” you reply. “If someone’s really sorry.” You think a second. “People can change. I know I believe that.”

He nods, looking away again. You watch him—how serious he got. You know him well enough to know when something is on his mind.

You’re about to ask him when the door to the hall opens and Benji and Colin shuffle through, followed by Victoire, Remy and Alex. You scramble to collect yourself—you were extremely relaxed, and it might look odd. Severus also straightens in his chair.

“Told you she’d be in here,” Benji says to the French students. 

You shrug. “Felix Felicis. Every day.”

Luckily, Benji and Colin haven’t dug too deeply on the timing or instructions for the potion. It wouldn’t be hard for them to figure out you frequently spend an hour between Felix maintenance and Advanced Potions Club in his office. But they haven’t even thought about it. You have that going for you—other people are too far up their own asses to pay much attention.

“May we see it?” Victoire asks, and you lead the others into the Felix maintenance closet to view the potion. You warn them not to jostle the table—one bump, one extra stir, could ruin this thing.

The Beauxbatoners are sufficiently impressed, and you return to the office to start Club as the other five potioneers arrive. The room is a bit crowded with three more bodies, and you purposely press yourself back by Severus’ desk, shooting him a crafty smile. You just had sex here. He simply smirks and looks away.

It’s Colin’s turn to suggest a potion today, and he doesn’t disappoint. This one was invented at some point in the late nineteenth century, and it’s supposed to be oracular. That is, it will let you see a glimpse of your own future. Of course, the veracity of it is highly suspect—most consider it to be a hack potion, merely causing hallucinations. Though, to be fair, the inventor did predict his own death at the talons of a hippogriff with startling accuracy.

The group gets started, though Severus hazards caution. “The very fumes of this potion will induce a trancelike state,” he says. “So don’t...breathe.”

It only takes an hour to brew—not much time for the effects it promises, you think. You let your classmates do most of the work, leaning back against Severus’ desk to watch. Until, that is, he sweeps by on his circuit around the room and stops abruptly in front of you. Barely glancing your way, he swiftly bops you over the head with the notebook he carries, and waits while you stand up straight. Only then does he continue on his way.

You rub your head, squinting at him even though it didn’t hurt. _Okay, okay, Jesus. No leaning on the desk._

Severus disappears into his classroom after that, mentioning that he’ll be back shortly and warning the group not to do anything with the completed potion until he returns. 

You watch as Terrance carefully adds the last ingredient, then stirs for a few minutes. Over time, the deep green liquid thickens into black, shimmering with metallic colors like ink or an oil spill. The fumes wafting off the cauldron are dark purple, and they immediately fill the room with a heady smell, like Frankincense.

Everyone is staring deep into the cauldron—even from your bit of distance, you feel the hypnotic pull. Like the potion is a black hole, capturing your gaze and refusing to release it. Everything else is very far away. Noises echo dully through the dungeon. Something is trying to reach out to you, you’re sure of it. Something...else. Some being from another realm wants to give you a message. And all you need to do is take a sip...

“Smells like church,” Maggie Thripp whispers dreamily, swaying on her feet.

Her voice wakes you up, thank god, brings you back to the present. You shake your head to try to clear it, reaching forward to put your hand on Terrance’s shoulder. He jumps violently, also shaking off his haze, and immediately spreads his arms out to corral people away from the cauldron.

“You heard Snape,” he says as the rest of the group backs off, blinking, looking like they’re just waking up from a deep sleep. “The fumes cause...hallucinations. Nothing to...” He swallows thickly. “Nothing to pay any mind to.”

“Nothing to pay any mind?” Benji says. He’s the only one who’s grinning. “I hope not. I saw myself snogging a _really_ lovely—”

“You guys saw things?” you interrupt. You didn’t. Just a sleepy, floating feeling.

“Yeah,” Alex replies eagerly. “Visions, perhaps, of our future. Did you not?”

“No,” you say.

“It’s because you are standing all the way back there,” Alex says, nodding sagely. He moves over to you and grips your arm, already pulling you toward the cauldron. “Try it.”

“I don’t know...” you reply. “Professor Snape said—”

“You’re the only one who has not,” Alex interrupts, positioning you directly beside the potion. “You have to.”

“Oh, _do_ I?” you ask, getting a little irritated by the attempted peer pressure. 

You’re about to pull away from him when two things happen simultaneously—Severus strides back into the office, and Alex reaches down and fully grabs your ass.

You inhale deeply at the sensation, surprised and angry, and you see Severus’ look of fury for a brief second...before the potion’s fumes are vacuumed into you by the gasp, and everything goes black.

Glimpses. Flashes. 

_A rainstorm on a balcony. You reach out to Severus as lightning splits the black sky. His eyes are hard and cold._

_George Weasley’s face. Tears streak down his cheeks, leaving trails in the soot and dirt caking them. You run to him. He collapses into your arms._

_A gravestone in a quiet, lonely place. You lean down to place a single rose before it. Then you fall to your knees and begin to sob. Such grief...you’ve never felt such grief..._

_Your breathing is heavy as you search crowded bookshelves in a chaotic bedroom. You’re looking for something. Desperate. It must be here. You pull down a heavy black tome and begin to rifle through. Every single page is blank and empty..._

You wheeze suddenly, your eyes popping open, reeling backwards. You would fall...if you weren’t already laying down.

You’ve been placed gently onto the sofa in the corner of Severus’ office. The first thing you see upon opening your eyes is his pale, concerned face, that deep line etched between his eyebrows. You’re so bewildered and relieved, you almost throw your arms around him...but then you take another glance around.

The Advanced Potions Club is gathered around you too, all wearing identical looks of distress. Thank god you didn’t hug him. You notice that the French students are gone. Beneath your nose, Severus is holding a small vial of pungent smelling salts. 

You fucking _fainted?_

You knock the salts out of the way, embarrassed, and move to sit up, but Severus places a gentle hand on your shoulder. And that’s when your head starts pounding.

“Ow, fuck me,” you groan, bringing a hand to your forehead. Benji snorts, and Severus shoots him a derisive glance.

“Water, Malkovich,” he demands of Colin, who immediately offers you the glass he holds.

Grateful, you take it, gulping down a few mouthfuls. After a second, your headache seems a bit better, but it’s still buzzing as if a hundred wasps have nested in your skull.

“Thanks,” you say, handing the glass back to Colin. You manage to sit up a little, and Severus stands to full height, pushing through the students to regain his distance. He’s still regarding you with concern, but you both know how careful you have to be. “I’m okay. What—”

“You took a _huge_ gulp of those fumes!” Benji exclaims.

“Then you fainted,” Colin adds helpfully. You groan, burying your face in your hands.

“I caught you,” Benji says, clearly proud of himself. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“Shut up, asshat,” you snap, almost laughing.

“Yes,” Severus agrees lazily from behind, and you look up at him, surprised that he's coming to your defense. “It would be helpful if you pretended to have even a shred of class, Zabini.” 

Benji just grins. “Sorry, sir.”

“I’m the one who deserves an apology, you little shit,” you say, reaching out to take a playful swing. Benji easily evades you, laughing.

Severus’s incisive black eyes flick to you. “And [Last name],” he says, “if I hear more language like that, I’ll be taking points. Despite your aching head.”

“Right,” you say, sobering. “Sorry, sir.” You glare up at Benji, who winks.

“We’re glad you’re okay, [First name],” Terrance says, and he does sound genuinely relieved. “The effects of this potion can be volatile. We should have been more careful.”

“That Arseneau is a real prat,” Julia says stiffly. “Grabbing you like that, knowing it’d surprise you.”

“That’s why I fainted?” you ask. “I took too deep of a breath?”

“None of _us_ passed out,” Benji says, shrugging. You wonder where Alex and the other Beauxbatoners went to, how Severus kicking them out went down, but you decide to ask about it when you’re alone with Benji and Colin.

“Did you see something, [Last name]?” Finn asks suddenly, leaning toward you eagerly.

“Grimsby,” Severus warns, and Finn glances back at him. 

“Sorry...” he says, turning to you again. “Only if you feel up to it.”

“I’m...” You frown. What _did_ you just see? You glance up at Severus. “Was that...my future? Seriously?” 

The Potions Master shrugs, sweeping back over to his desk as the rest of the Club turns to him curiously. 

“It is impossible to say for sure,” he replies. “There’s no doubt that the potion is...somewhat oracular. But prophecies are often self-fulfilling. And the future is never set in stone.”

“I hope not,” you reply, biting your cheek. “It seemed pretty fucking grim.” You catch Severus’ flinch at the curse, and you shrug. “Sorry, again, sir.” You put a hand to your forehead. “My head’s not on right, yet.” 

“What’d you see?” Maggie puts in. Frowning, you look at the floor. Suddenly, these glimpses of your future seem so personal. Severus was in them, as was George. And the grave...and the book...

Somehow, you hate the idea of telling them about _any_ of it. You hesitate for a long time, avoiding eye contact, trying to think of a way to explain this gut feeling without coming off as insulting or purposely withholding. Luckily, however, Severus comes to your rescue.

“That is an extremely personal question, Miss Thripp,” he says mildly. He’s watching you very carefully, and you suddenly hope _he_ won’t ask you about them, either. You’re not even sure you could tell Severus.

 _Why?_ What is so profound about those things you glimpsed? You don’t understand.

You look to Severus, hoping he’ll explain. The others are looking at him curiously, too.

“These could be considered memories, could they not?” he says, eyes flicking across his students, his face grave. “Miss [Last name] simply saw them before they happen. And by their very nature, memories are private things.”

“Oh,” Maggie says, looking pained. “Sorry, [Last name].”

“No worries,” you reply cheerfully. But you don’t offer any more information, despite Benji and Colin’s curious looks. “Anyway, I’m feeling better.”

The group nods, taking this as their cue that Club is over. They back away, finally giving you some space to breathe, and go about gathering up their things. You notice the potion has already been vanished, and the room is fume-free.

You’re about to sit up fully and try to regain your feet, when Severus calls out from his post by his desk. “[Last name].”

“Sir?”

“You will remain where you are,” he says firmly. “For at least another ten minutes.” 

“Oh, I’m fine, sir, really,” you say, though honestly you like the idea of hanging around.

He simply sneers at you. “No arguments, [Last name],” he replies as if you are an annoying child. “God forbid you have another fainting spell on your way back to the common room. I’d prefer not to waste _all_ of my smelling salts on you.”

Then he turns away to attend to some business on his desk. You snort. What an absolute dick. Why do you love it?

“Want us to wait with you?” Colin asks, sitting beside you on the couch. You glance at Severus and imagine how annoyed he’d be if you said yes. It’s tempting.

But in the end, you shake your head. “Save me a seat at dinner,” you say. 

The students trickle out, and when the room is finally empty again, you sigh. Severus approaches you, standing before you, looking down with a very serious expression. Slowly, he reaches out and brushes some of your hair out of your face. It’s surprisingly tender for him, and you relax into the touch, closing your eyes.

He gently tilts up your chin with one long pale finger and watches your eyes intently. _Please don't ask about he visions._

You look away. Immediately, he releases your chin and does the same.

 _“Fainting,”_ he says derisively, his expression dark. “Would it be too much to ask that you don’t do that again?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “No problem,” you say, shaking your head, which causes a twinge of pain. You cringe. “Head still hurts.”

“It will for a while, I’d gather,” he says. He sneers, shaking his head, and begins to turn away. “I knew it was a mistake to invite that boy to my classroom.”

You nod, reaching out to grab his sleeve. He stops, turning back to you with a raised eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say. “I’m glad you were here.”

Slowly, you rise off the couch to stand before him. He regards you carefully, as though waiting for you to fall over.

“Are you lightheaded?” he asks, and though his tone is clinical, his fingers come up to brush your cheek, tuck your hair behind your ear. 

“Nope,” you whisper, leaning closer. But he leans back a little in turn, teasing you, and you roll your eyes. “Can you just kiss me already?” you demand. "Please?"

Severus’ eyebrows pop up and a smirk crawls across his broad mouth. “How polite,” he replies. 

And he tilts your chin up and does so.


	20. Thinking Spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the midst of fluff and smut heavy content here, so enjoy the good times while they last :)
> 
> Love you, babies. You look great today.

* * *

_Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey.  
_ _The more I get of you, the stranger it feels.  
_ _Now that your rose is in bloom,  
_ _A light hits the gloom on the grey._

"Kiss from a Rose" - Seal

* * *

At Severus’ insistence, you head up to dinner without him—he reiterates yet again that the two of you are not to do anything out of the ordinary that could be noticed by your peers. You don’t mention leaving your cloak beneath the stands yesterday, nor the fact that your friends questioned where you were during the task. That would just stress him out, and you don’t want to push his already-tenuous dedication to this relationship.

Maybe in a few months, when he trusts you a bit more. When he _cares_ for you a bit more.

You actually do wonder about that part of it. How much of this is strictly physical for Severus? You’re pretty sure he genuinely enjoys your company, but he’s never actually said so. All you know for sure is that he finds you attractive to the point that he can’t keep himself from touching you. But that doesn’t exactly mean deeper feelings, does it?

His letter said you “fascinate” him. And while that’s sweet, it could also mean he thinks of you like some weird bug he’s caught in a jar. Past boyfriends would at least tell you how cool they thought you were, or say “I like you” at some point. Will Severus? 

You genuinely don’t think so. His mind is a closed book, and on the rare occasions he lets his guard down, he goes cold again immediately to compensate. Maybe he simply doesn’t intend to deepen this bond. Maybe he’s never going to let you in.

So the big question is whether you can deal with that. 

Sure, you’re confident. You’ve had to be to break down his walls. But will it get exhausting? Will it be worth it?

You smile to yourself, barely taking in your surroundings as you make your way into the Great Hall. It’s worth it so far. And hey, if he makes it clear that he’s just after a casual sex thing, you can swing with that too. You’re not a child. You can guard your heart.

You slide into the Slytherin table next to Benji and Colin as they’re finishing their dinners, and you hurriedly fill your plate before the food vanishes.

“What took you?” Colin asks. You shrug, fighting to keep from flushing—you got distracted kissing Severus in his office and ended up spending a bit longer than ten minutes there. He had to literally push you out his door, telling you not to be foolish.

“The headache wouldn’t go away,” you lie, chewing thoughtfully on a dinner roll. Then you lean toward the boys—you’ve been curious. “What happened when I fainted? With Alex.” 

Benji whistles low under his breath, and Colin widens his eyes.

“You should’ve seen it,” Benji says, laughing in disbelief. “Haven’t seen Snape that angry in years.”

“He grabbed Alex,” Colin says, “and literally _threw_ him through the door.” Then he surprises you by doing a surprisingly good impression of Severus “All like, ‘ _Get. Out.’”_ You laugh loudly, and Colin shrugs. “Victoire and Remy scarpered too, after that.”

“Don’t blame them,” Benji continues. “I forget how scary he can be.”

“Nasty trick Alex pulled,” Colin says disapprovingly, crossing his arms.

“Ah, he didn’t mean anything by it,” Benji says. “You’re not mad at him, are you, [Last name]?” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, now that you mention it,” you say. “I kind of am.”

“Well, he’s sorry, if it helps,” Benji says. He leans forward, grinning. “He just likes you, is all.”

_Yeah, he’s made that abundantly clear already._

“Snape’s not having him back in Club, though,” Colin says. He gives you a thoughtful look, then cracks a grin. “It’s almost like he actually gives a shit about you.”

“Snape cares about all of us,” you say truthfully. “In his own way. He’s nicer to us than any of the younger kids, anyway.”

“We just don’t drive him mad, that’s all,” Benji says. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say he _cares.”_

And you just nod, smiling to yourself while you sip your pumpkin juice.

* * *

The following day is utterly average.

Snape is actually a bit surprised by that. He thought, somehow, that this affair with you would turn everything upside-down. Invite chaos in every corner and tear his world apart. More importantly, somewhere at the back of his head, he assumed it would be discovered immediately and he would be forcibly expelled from the castle, broken and disgraced.

But...no. He conducts class as usual, forgetting for minutes at a time that anything has changed. And even during Advanced Potions, you manage to keep your sultry eyes on your cauldron and your wand away from your mouth. Yes, he still can’t trust himself to look at you too often. And yes, he feels a strong urge to keep you behind once the final bell has rung. That’s not going away any time soon, it seems.

But the difference is, today he restrains himself. Snape has always been a highly disciplined person—his willpower is formidable and he rarely lets emotions run him. It feels better to know he can still maintain control when it comes to you. He’ll admit—after that day beneath the stands, he worried he’d lose it completely.

This isn’t to say it’s easy. Every time he glances at you, he wants to keep staring. You still make him feel like he’s losing his mind—that hasn’t changed simply because he can now touch you. Now it’s that he wants to touch you all the time. Now it’s a different kind of insanity.

When the final bell chimes, you clean up slowly, clearly wanting to stay after and speak with him. He really can’t let that continue. It’s too dangerous. The more allowances you give yourselves, he knows, the more likely you are to slip up. And until you leave school, you _cannot_ slip up. 

He must be strict. Because you are far too reckless. He must not give you your way. Your way is ruinous, he knows.

But when the others leave, and it’s just you and him, and you send him that clever smile of yours...he wants to.

But he can’t.

“I have work to do, [First name],” he says, somewhat cold. You raise your eyebrows and stand from your desk to approach him. But Snape holds out a hand to stop you. 

“Oh, come on,” you say.

“I believe I was quite clear,” he replies. You look affronted, then annoyed. You fold your arms and he raises an eyebrow. “Am I in trouble with you already?” he asks dryly. “This has to be a record.”

“I can’t even kiss you for a second?” you ask. 

Snape feels a strange warmth spread through his chest. _You_ want to kiss _him_...Imagine.

But he suppresses that line of thought. “[First name]...” he says, sounding more irritated than he is. Your irritation deepens in turn. And he understands. After yesterday and the day before, he’s aware he’s giving you whiplash. But damn you, you refuse to play by the rules.

“Why not?” you demand, and he hesitates, so you continue. “Normal couples do that, you know. Kiss each other hello and goodbye.”

 _“Are_ we a normal couple, [Last name]?” Snape replies derisively. “I hadn’t considered us anything of the sort.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s got you smiling. Why in the world you find his abrasive nature charming is quite beyond him, but he’s not sorry for it.

“What, you don’t _want_ to kiss me?” you shoot back, stepping closer. Snape rolls his eyes. You’re fishing for something here, and he doesn’t want to give in.

“Yet again,” he says, leaning back and rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I believe I was quite clear.” He pauses for a moment, then. “Out, [Last name]. I’ll see you in an hour for Felix maintenance.”

You make a noise of disconcertment—he wouldn’t be surprised if you actually stomped a foot—and then you’re turning and walking out of his office. Snape sits up to watch you, somewhat surprised. You usually have some kind of witty remark.

He suddenly regrets his words. Did they actually hurt you?

* * *

You tell yourself for the next hour not to read into anything he said. But it’s not working. His words echo through your mind. And after your thoughts last night, they don’t really bode well.

 _Are_ you just sex to him? Maybe he _doesn’t_ want a relationship. Though, you have to say, looking for just the friends-with-benefits experience with a student is honestly ballsier than you’d give Severus credit for.

You’ll talk to him, you decide, striding down the hall to his office. Ask him point-blank what he expects from this. Tell him directly that you’re interested in being his girlfriend if that’s what he wants. And if he’s hesitant, you can wait for a while. But—and here is where you’ll square your shoulders and summon every ounce of pride—but you won’t wait forever. You won’t be _used._

Your misgivings increase, however, when you enter his office to find it empty. It happens occasionally, of course, but not often. Slightly put out, you head over to the side room where you keep the Felix Felicis.

You immediately see the note he placed next to the cauldron, and you smile. Well, not as good as his presence, but better than nothing. You pick it up and read:

_When you are finished with the potion, meet me at the top of the southern tower. Lock the door as you leave._

_S._

_PS Burn this note._

“Bossy,” you mutter to yourself, but you do as he instructed and the paper bursts into flame. You quickly do the Felix maintenance, note the results and hurry out of his office, careful to lock up. What’s up in the southern tower?

The halls are filled with students, as class is over and everyone is free to do as they please. Most of them are younger, so you don’t really care if they see you, but you still keep to back hallways as much as possible as you make your way upstairs. The upper floors of Hogwarts are not exactly your turf—you’re more of a dungeon dweller—but you know your way around enough to find where you’re going.

The higher you go, the fewer students are around, which is lucky. If someone you know sees you here, they’d surely ask why.

At that moment, a flash of red catches your eye, like the wings of a rare bird, and you look up to see Fred and George heading your way. Their heads are together, speaking to each other lowly, and you don’t think they’ve seen you yet. You take the opportunity to dart around a corner and wait for them to pass. They would _surely_ ask what you’re doing here, and probably insist on accompanying you to your destination.

So you press yourself back against the wall and wait. You hear the twins as they pass by, whispering rapidly, and you kind of wonder what’s up. They’ve been dropping hints about experiments they’re working on...But now is not the time to pop out and ask.

When they’ve gone, you hurry down the next corridor and up a set of stone stairs. It takes you to a surprisingly deserted area of the castle. You raise your eyebrows at the lack of other living souls, but you suppose it makes sense. It’s not near any of the dorms, and it’s a long way from the Great Hall or the library.

The southern tower is just at the end of the corridor, then up another flight of stairs. You’re a bit breathless by the time you come through the heavy wooden door...but you forget that as soon as you see the view.

The tower is circular, and the outer wall is completely absent, opening instead onto a large, curving balcony. A low sun in the cloudy sky casts gray light over a spectacular view of Hogwarts. The tower faces the Black Lake, where Durmstrang’s ship is anchored, a small dot in a dark field. The last of the day’s light glints peacefully off the dark waves.

And Severus is here too, of course. He’s looking out pensively, resting against the balcony railing. You take a quick look around before you approach. The tower room is cozy—brick walls, two armchairs, a clock, a reading lamp and piles of books. You could definitely cuddle up here under a blanket on a rainy day, watching the view.

“Hey,” you say gently, stepping with Severus out onto the balcony. He glances toward you, a smile raising one corner of his mouth, before looking back to the view.

“Do you like it?” he asks. 

You laugh—who wouldn’t? “Of course,” you reply. “It’s beautiful.” He nods thoughtfully, and you slide a bit closer to him. He smells good. “Is this what you wanted to show me? The view?”

A furrow appears between his eyebrows, and your heart sinks, bracing for what comes next. When he speaks, he does so slowly and deliberately. “I am...sharing something with you,” he says, “which I have never shared with anyone.” A tiny smile twitches his mouth, and he gestures back at the cozy room. “My escape.”

You sigh, relieved. Why are you so sure he’s going to hit you with bad news at all times? You’ll have to work on that...

You glance back at the cozy nook. Now that you’re looking, it’s clear this is a nest of Severus’. The blanket across the chair is dark gray, there is a pile of parchment on the table against the back wall, and most of the books look old. Plus the abandoned chess game in the corner and the empty potion vial on the sideboard.

“Escape from what?” you ask, and Severus gives you a look like _what do you think?_ You laugh.

“Nobody comes here,” he says. “When I need to get out of my office...when I need a bit of peace...I’ve used it since I was a student. It’s always the same.”

“It’s your thinking spot,” you say, smiling gently at him. Every time you talk, you come across another facet of Severus Snape. 

He shrugs, clearly unimpressed by the title. “I thought it would make a good change of pace,” he says. He turns toward you, examining you in the golden light of the setting sun. “I only ever see you in the dungeons.” Your heart flutters as he reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You sure this was a good idea?” you tease, leaning into his touch. “You won’t be able to get rid of me.”

Severus tilts his head, thoughtful, then looks away. He’s still smiling gently. “I hadn’t considered that,” he replies. But you can tell it’s a joke.

You nudge him, laughing. Then you take a deep breath, trying to pluck up the courage to ask him about the whole “girlfriend” thing. It’s hard to talk serious when he’s being this sweet. But you need to. You’re not the type to just sit on something like that.

But he speaks before you can: “You mentioned wanting to learn the _Muffliato_ charm.”

You turn toward him, forgetting the serious stuff. A new spell! Those are fun, and increasingly hard to come by if you don’t want to make up your own. Which you really don’t have the patience to do.

“You’ll teach me?” you say. 

Severus shrugs and draws his wand, motioning that you should do the same. “The spell affects an area the size of the caster’s choosing,” he says, a little formal. “The noises coming from that area are turned into a peculiar buzzing, should anyone pass by outside of it.”

“You’ve got your teacher voice on,” you say fondly, leaning back against the railing. He simply side-eyes you and takes a step forward, raising his wand.

“For example,” he says, and casts the spell silently toward the chairs. Then he goes to stand by one, and you watch his mouth open and close as if he’s speaking. But sure enough, all you can hear is a weird buzzing noise you can’t quite place. It’s so subtle it feels like it’s coming from inside your head.

“Weird,” you say, squinting. You don’t like it—it makes him feel very removed from you. Severus smirks, but stays where he is. “What’s the counter-spell?”

Severus waves his wand, and you can hear him again. “A simple _Finite,”_ he replies. He steps toward you, holding his wand out, and you raise yours as well. “It’s not a particularly difficult charm—I was only fifteen when I invented it. But the wand work is a little complicated.” 

With a few precise flicks of his wand, he demonstrates. You watch his beautiful hands—long, thin, pronounced tendons, almost ghostly pale except for a hint of color at the knuckles. He shows you the movement once more.

Then you try to replicate it—but he’s right, it’s a bit complex for such a simple spell. “You couldn’t have refined this a bit?” you say, smirking at him, trying again. 

Severus shakes his head. “Again,” he replies, “I was fifteen.”

“Check out the child genius over here,” you say, rolling your eyes, which makes him chuckle. You try the movement again, but you actually seem to be getting worse.

Severus strides around you to come up from behind. He lays his hand against yours on your wand in an almost-business-like manner, but presses against your backside a little closer than he needs to. A black clad arm sneaks around your waist, pulling you against him.

“Now,” he says, his hot breath against your ear sending goosebumps across your body. “Move with me.”

He uses his hand to move yours, counting out the wand positions—”One, two, three...four. One, two, three...four.” 

But his face is just over your shoulder and it’s a bit distracting—you see the black and white impression in your periphery, catch the glint of his deep eyes. By the fourth walk through, you’re turning a little to look at him. By the fifth, you’ve forgotten your wand even exists.

“One, two...” 

You turn so that your lips are inches from his, and you can feel each other's breath. He trails off, looking over. You can tell he’s going for an expression of disapproval, but it’s not quite convincing.

“If you aren’t going to pay attention,” he says, pulling you back against him firmly, “why are you wasting my time?”

“You call this a waste of time?” you ask, eyes going hooded as you watch his mouth. 

He rolls his eyes. “Just try the spell, girl,” he says.

You sigh, facing front again and mimicking the movements he showed you. Then you whisper _“Muffliato.”_

You can tell right away that it worked. The ticking of the clock in the corner disappears and is replaced by a sound like a swarm of bees.

“Good,” Severus says, seeming a little surprised. Though as he said, it’s a pretty simple spell. “Again.”

He makes you cast it half a dozen more times, but you’re not really complaining, because he holds you from behind throughout. Better yet, his hand leaves your wand, and both palms begin a slow journey down your torso. Spread-fingered, firmly feeling every curve. He inhales as you do, pulling you against him, and you feel his mouth lower to your neck.

“Good girl,” he whispers into your hair, and you drop your wand arm, simultaneously dropping your head back against his shoulder. You feel his firm hands move over your skirt, bunching the fabric, rubbing against you...

Severus suddenly spins you around in his arms to kiss you, assertive and needful. He gathers you against him and turns you both out to the balcony. You laugh against his mouth as he presses you backwards, wondering what his plan is here. He leans you back against the balcony railing, and you feel the empty air behind you, gusts of wind rippling your skirt.

“Sev,” you gasp as his hand shifts between your thighs, stroking you with the side of his hand, thumb rubbing slow circles. He leans back, eyebrow quirked, and smirk gently at your flushed face. You take a moment to catch your breath. His hand does not stop moving.

“Yes?” he asks mildly after a beat.

“What—” Yeah, good question, genius. What exactly are you trying to say here? Are you actually trying to prevent this? “We’re outside.”

“Really, [Last name]?” he asks flatly. Then he rolls his eyes and lowers his mouth to your neck again, his tongue dancing, tracing your jugular. “Your insight astonishes me,” he murmurs.

You scoff, then moan as he turns his hand and cups you fully, rubbing back and forth across your plain cotton underwear. You grip his hair with both hands, throwing your head back at the sensations, the feel of him pressed against you—yards of silk and wool, his firm, lean body beneath. And his wet mouth and his clever fingers...

Severus pulls back suddenly and takes your hips in both hands, pressing a lingering kiss against your mouth. 

Then he shocks you by slowly lowering himself to his knees. 

You gasp, your mouth dropping open, and he gives you an inquiring look. You’re not sure why...but you kind of assumed he wouldn’t be the type to actually get on his knees for _you._ You kind of assumed it would be the other way around, at least at first. But you’re coming to find out that, while Severus is dominant and forceful, he actually prefers to give than to receive.

“You’ve been so agreeable today,” he muses, stroking your hips, trailing his fingers down your legs. “I think you deserve a reward.”

You gasp as he leans forward and trails his mouth teasingly across your thighs, over your skirt, pressing his face against you. You’re breathing heavily, and he is too, and he takes the fabric of your uniform and bunches iit up carelessly around your waist. 

His eyes latch onto your panties, a smirk crawling across his lips. He looks up to your face for a lingering moment.

Then Severus leans forward and presses his face between your thighs, his mouth already open. You gasp loudly at the pressure of his tongue, glad that this tower is so remote. You feel strangely exposed, both to him and to the rest of the Hogwarts grounds, though you know no one can see you up here. The air breezing between your legs is a heady reminder of your vulnerable position up here, even as his tongue demands every ounce of your attention.

Your hands fly to the railing on either side of you, gripping desperately, as he rips your panties aside. Severus presses his lips to you again, grunting, filling his hands with your ass and pulling you closer. You moan as he finds a good rhythm, hips bucking, trying to indicate to him not to stop. 

He’s good at this, you reflect vaguely, feeling his breath against you. You know from experience—not a lot of guys are. 

_At least, guys my age._

Perks of dating your teacher, you suppose, breath hitching as his tongue makes relentless circles, as his fingers join the fray, tracing and thrusting. One of his large hands lifts your soft thigh, spreading you open, so you plant a foot on his black-clad shoulder. He redoubles his efforts after that, forcing shudders through your body, forcing that pressure to build and coil and grow hot.

He’s not silent as he does this. He groans and huffs at your movements, clearly paying close attention to what you like and what you don’t. Possibly even as into your pleasure as you are. He’ll chuckle when you make noise and immediately repeat his actions, then again, then again. 

Your knuckles are white as you clench the railing. Severus continues kissing and licking and sucking, relentless, and suddenly heady waves of pleasure are rolling across you, intense and greedy, matching the rhythm of his tongue. You throw your head back, moaning into the open sky, feeling the last few rays of the setting sun against your face. Severus’ long fingers dig into your thighs as you begin to quiver against his mouth, helpless under this hot swell of release. You vaguely hear yourself crying out his name.

You take a long moment to catch your breath, pushing the mess of hair from your face. Severus leans back on his knees, mouth wet and undeniably erotic, pupils blown huge. He smirks at you, and you return it with a little laugh.

Jesus Christ. You could seriously get used to this.


	21. Letting Your Hair Down (on a Wednesday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so I added lyrics to the beginning of each chapter lol like that was necessary. We’ll see how long I keep it up. 
> 
> All of the songs remind me of Snape in one way or another, but “Sunburn” by Muse is my quintessential song for this story. So if you’re going to listen to any of them, make it that one.
> 
> And below we have some Melanie M. because I couldn't not.
> 
> Enjoy! I love you! Please tell me what you think.

* * *

_Teacher's pet_  
_If I'm so special, why am I secret?_  
_Yeah, why the fuck is that?_  
_Do you regret_  
_The things we shared that I'll never forget?_  
_Well, do you? Tell me that._  
_I know I'm young, but my mind is well beyond my years._  
_I knew this couldn't last, but fuck you, don't you leave me here._

"Teacher's Pet" - Melanie Martinez

* * *

It’s amazing how easy it is. You didn’t expect that. You honestly thought the secret would be harder to keep. That people would start asking questions, or take note of the glances between the two of you. Every look from Severus now seems sultry, loaded with sex and insinuation. Your chemistry is so intense, it boggles your mind that others don’t pick up on it.

But you have something going for you: people don’t pay attention to anyone but themselves. You’ve had no close calls or awkward questions since that day beneath the stands. You usually avoid much interaction in front of others. Severus reports that the rest of the faculty seem none the wiser. Your friends don’t really notice your absence in the afternoons, assuming you’re off studying, and you make a point to make time for them after dinner. 

Actually, you _have_ noticed that George is seeking you out more frequently than usual. It’s not unwelcome, however. Benji is so distracted with Victoire, and Colin is buried in DADA books with Brenna half the time—Moody’s looming midterm has them pulling their hair out. After berating Alex fiercely for grabbing your ass, and his seemingly genuine apology, you forgive him. But now he always seems to be hanging around, making eyes and flirting. So whenever George comes along to whisk you away on some random adventure or show you something cool he found in the castle, you eagerly accept.

But mostly you wish you could while away the days with Severus in his office. It’s so quiet and comfortable there. More than once, you’ve curled up with a book in one of his armchairs while he scratches away with his quill at his desk and looked up startled to find it’s already dinner time.

And well...it’s not just the peace and comfort.

You really can’t keep your hands off each other. You’ve never experienced something like this. Severus is better at it than you, but even he admits it’s a struggle. Classes begin to feel like foreplay, as you both know what comes after—locking yourselves in his office, letting him bend you over the couch or the desk. Pressing against each other, feeling his forehead grow damp with sweat as he huffs heavily into your ear. Hearing his ragged, breathless cries when you finally bring him over the edge—he can last, this man, and he seems to enjoy putting it off as long as possible. At least until you come first...sometimes more than once.

So that’s how the first two weeks of your relationship go. You honestly don’t do much talking—most of your time is spent panting and moaning and kissing. And then he’ll kick you out, citing work, and you’ll leave because you have work to do too. 

December arrives, as does the first snow, and the entire school buzzes with anticipation. The Yule Ball is announced, and suddenly everyone is making arrangements to stay at Hogwarts over Christmas. You’re looking forward to it, of course, but there’s a lot of work to be done before then. And you’re trying not to let Severus distract you too much. You refuse to fail your midterms simply because you’re getting railed every evening in the Potions Master’s office.

You come to miss the simple conversations with him though. These hot and heavy trists of yours are not exactly romantic. It’s just that as soon as Severus touches you, all you want is him inside of you again. You suppose soon the shine will wear off—but this part of your honeymoon phase seems to involve unabating sexual desire. 

Severus smirks when you mention this to him one afternoon. You’re lying naked on his couch, and he sits beside you (nearly fully dressed, as usual) allowing you to rest your head on his thighs as you recover from another mind blowing session. Huge flakes of snow pile up against the high, narrow windows, and the fire in the corner crackles cozily. You’re trying to make the moment last—soon he’ll tell you to get up and put your clothes on. But for now he’s content.

“Yes,” he muses slowly, toying with your hair between his long fingers. “I assume we’ll slow down at some point. I’m not as young as I was.”

You snort. “Sorry, but _your_ stamina isn’t what I’m worried about.” A smile twitches his lips and you sigh. “It’s too good, that’s all.” You love when he gets that self-satisfied look he’s wearing now. It’s rare, but it makes you feel good.

“We are rather remarkable, aren’t we?” he murmurs, more to himself than you. And a rush of warmth spills over you.

And no, you haven’t discussed the girlfriend thing. This feels like a wonderful, golden time. You forget sometimes that it is dangerous, and you feel him forget too. You want it to continue, light and free and easy...you don’t want to ruin it with harsh truths. Severus is _very_ good with harsh truths.

A few days later, you come up to the Great Hall at breakfast. You and Severus had to skip the love-making last night, which is rare. You’ve made a habit of doing it almost every day, and you were just getting hot and heavy when you remembered you had a study session planned with Benji and Colin. You laughed at his expression when you pulled away. How he could literally _embody_ exasperation, you didn’t know.

So you’re eager to see him this morning. And you’re even more eager for the end of class, when you can continue last night’s activities. 

He’s already up at the staff table by the time you enter, but you catch his eye as you find a seat at the Slytherin table. He’s leaning his elbows against the table, chatting mildly with Professor Sinistra, and he looks away almost as soon as your gazes lock.

You slide onto the bench beside Benji, still watching Severus. The desire is particularly heady today, probably due to the abrupt interruption last night. You wonder if he feels it too.

He hates it when you put your wand against your lip during class—he says it’s distracting—so that’s exactly what you do now. Benji and Colin are chatting idly, oblivious, and you keep glancing up at Severus from beneath your lashes. His gaze flicks your way, locking onto your mouth, and you feel your lip twitch. Heat pools inside you under his attention, even if it only lasts a moment before he directs it back to Sinistra. You catch the slightest shake of his head. _Stop that._

You continue breakfast, surreptitiously checking on Severus every few moments. The next time his eyes flick your way, you roll back your shoulders and stretch your arms, arching your back to bring attention to the way your chest strains against your uniform top. He watches the entire time, expression freezing into that steely mask he wears whenever you get his mind racing. You smirk at him and raise an eyebrow. And you can see the flash of annoyance in those black eyes from here.

Then you turn back to your friends and finish your breakfast. You don’t look his way again—but you do press your wand to your lip as often as possible, on the off chance that he’s watching.

First period goes by, and then you have an hour of free study, which you spend in the library—packed with students studying for their exams. When the bell rings for Herbology, you gather your things and make your way into the throng of students moving down the hall. 

The crowd is thick and heavy as it bottlenecks into a narrow corridor leading toward the Entrance Hall. Some third years jostle you hard in the side, and it knocks your bookbag askew. You grumble to yourself, still walking, trying to redo the latches so you won’t lose any important papers.

Suddenly, a hand reaches out and grabs you firmly around the upper arm, and you are dragged into a dark niche, which is covered by a thick tapestry.

You gasp, stumbling in the dark space—the niche recedes surprisingly far back into the wall—a bit annoyed. You assume it’s George. This is just the kind of thing he’d do.

You’re just about to say his name in the most annoyed tone you can muster when you are slammed back against the wall and a tall, black frame forces itself against you, a spidery hand at your throat.

_Not George, then._

You gasp as Severus kisses you feverishly, moving quickly, one hand around your neck, the other running without prejudice over your body. You vaguely hear your school bag thump to the floor, and the ruckus of the students outside. But his heat is overwhelming, and he presses his hips against you, grinds against you, and you feel the thickness of him under his slacks. And you think he must have been waiting for you here for some time.

“Sev,” you gasp as his mouth goes to your neck and latches there, sucking deliriously, teeth nipping. His hands move under your skirt to the sides of your panties, intending at first to slide them down your legs before seeming to rethink. He simply pushes them aside instead, fingers tangling in the soft fabric.

His mouth finally relinquishes your neck when you let out a soft moan of discomfort—you feel a bruise forming—and he presses his nose into your hair, breathing hard.

“A cruel thing to do,” he whispers against your ear in that low, silky voice of you. “Your...display in the Great Hall.”

You almost laugh, but you’re too breathless, especially as his fingers stroke against you. As it is, you can’t think of anything to say, so you simply wrap your arms around his shoulders. This is risky. You’re practically in public. What happened to being careful?

Students are still moving down the hallway as Severus grips both your thighs. Suddenly, with a grunt, he picks you up and wraps your legs around his waist, using the wall to brace your body upright. He’s pressed hard against you, all sharp angles and masculine arousal, and you gasp, surprised and delighted by his strength and dominance. You gasp again when his hand goes between you, and suddenly his slacks are undone and he’s pressing his exposed flesh against yours, and your quivering thighs tighten around his narrow hips.

Then Severus rams into you.

You hear his own interjection of pleasure, a low, throaty hum deep in his chest as his hips begin to piston back and force, driving you against the wall. You moan out loud, forgetting the crowd outside—barely a yard away—and Severus slams a hand over your mouth.

“Shut. _Up,”_ he whispers, hoarse and breathless, and your eyes roll back as he goes faster. 

He groans, the hypocrite, and his hand returns to your ass, steadying your precarious position as you cling to him, wrap your legs tighter around his waist and dig your fingers into his shoulders. His mouth returns to your neck, your ear, every puff of his hot breath electric, every flick of his tongue like fire. Then he pulls back and adjusts his grip on the soft skin of your thighs, fingers pressing deep enough to bruise. He regains his rapid thrusts, driving deeper, forcing you back against the wall.

He’s breathing hard, heavy, rapid against your face, and his brows are furrowed, his eyes open, raking over you, taking you in. He presses his damp forehead against yours, strands of his hair tickling your face, and you watch his eyes as he gets close. He rarely takes his pleasure without thinking of your own, but today is different. This isn’t for you, this rough coupling in a public corridor. This is for him, because he needs you, because he can’t help himself, and fuck if that isn’t a turn on in and of itself.

Severus only lasts a few more moments before he jolts, shudders against you, buries his face in your hair and lets out a raw cry of pleasure. The hallway beyond is mostly deserted now, but he chokes it off halfway through nonetheless.

You catch your breath as he does the same, resting against each other for a moment. Then he sets you down firmly onto your feet, buttons his slacks and runs a hand through his hair.

You’re feeling a little shocked, unable to believe the last few minutes just happened, that he just fucked you up against a wall, so you just kind of stand there as Severus regains his composure completely. He looks like nothing happened as he twitches aside the tapestry and glances around to make sure the coast is clear. Then he glances back at you, sighs and shakes his head.

Without another word, he leaves.

You inhale deeply, leaning back against the wall as you right your skirt and underwear. You still feel hot and flushed, and more than anything a bit disappointed at your lack of release. You think about following him, dragging him back into your little niche and making him finish the job.

Then the bell rings, indicating class has started, and you jump. Herbology is all the way down at the greenhouses—you’ll be late for sure.

“Goddammit, you asshole,” you mutter, popping your head out of the niche. The hallway is deserted—everyone is in class. God, you hope your hair isn’t a mess...

Patting down your tangled head, trying to feel less sweaty and dirty, you head down the hall. Sprout likes you, but you’re not looking forward to her disapproval.

“Oi! [First name]!”

You’re almost across the Entrance Hall when a familiar voice rings out, and you turn to see Fred and George hurrying toward you.

“Skipping again,” George says, mock-disapproving, shaking his head. “You rebel.”

“Great minds think alike,” Fred says, grinning.

You laugh as they reach you. “Actually—”

“This might be your lucky day,” Fred interrupts as George throws an arm around you and starts herding you toward a side corridor. 

“Fred and I were just heading down to the kitchens,” George continues.

“Fancy a quick bite?”

You laugh at their rapid back-and-forth but pull away before they can drag you deeper into the castle. “I want to,” you say. “But I really can’t. I was just on my way to class.” You start backing away from them, shrugging. “Sorry, guys.”

“Fine, go get your little ‘education’,” Fred says, air-quoting and rolling his eyes. “We’ll be off having a really interesting experience—it’s called fun.”

“Ever heard of it?” George adds, grinning. 

“Not with exams so close,” you reply, mime-shooting yourself in the head.

“You should loosen up, [First name],” George says, and his eyebrows raise suddenly, as if he just remembered something. “Speaking of which...”

The twins glance at each other, something conspiratorial passing between them, then turn back to you. Their grins are wide and mischievous.

“What?” you ask, worried where this is leading.

Fred steps toward you and lowers his voice. “Little party tonight, [Last name],” he says, and he raises his eyebrows. “Strictly sixth and seventh years.”

“Bit of a break from studying,” George continues. He shakes his shaggy hair. “Let our hair down.

You laugh. “Why not wait til Friday?” you say. “Everyone has class tomorrow.”

“Sometimes you need to let your hair down on Wednesdays,” George replies, shrugging, which makes you laugh again.

“Okay,” you say. “Where?”

“There’s a secret passage right next to the Transfiguration classroom,” George replies, eyes gleaming eagerly. “Meet us there at midnight.”

So that’s how you end up sneaking out of your dorm that night, after the other girls are asleep. You consider waking Brenna and seeing if she wants to come, but she generally doesn’t like big social gatherings. You told Benji and Colin about it, though, and they said they might show. But neither of them particularly like the Weasley twins. You have a feeling this gathering will be a bit outside of your usual social circle.

You didn’t tell Severus, either. You didn’t get a chance. He wasn’t there for Felix maintenance—his note said he had a staff meeting—and you had some more studying to do, so you couldn’t just wait around for him. Though honestly, you went back and forth on whether you’d mention it to him, anyway. He might feel obligated to break it up.

You’re excited for the party. After long weeks of schoolwork and stress—yes, even stress about this thing with Severus—George was right. Sometimes you just need to let your hair down on a Wednesday. 

You dress up for it, refusing to wear a collared shirt to a social gathering. Instead, you slip into the bathroom and tug on a short black skirt and an emerald green crop top, accessorizing with a choker and a few necklaces, as well a pair of black heels. It feels good to wear street clothes again—having a No-Maj mom gave you a taste for it. Plus you look pretty badass. You’d wear this type of thing out clubbing with friends during summers in the US.

Time is ticking down, so you quickly throw your hair up into a messy bun and slide on some eyeliner. But you don’t spend much time looking in the mirror at the final product. You just steal out of the Slytherin dorms and down the black corridors of Hogwarts.

You get to the Transfiguration classroom after a few minutes—no faculty encounters on the way—and you cast your light around to try to locate the twins. But the hallway is dark and empty, and you can’t hear any party sounds. 

You frown. Is there even a party here? Did Fred and George prank you? Kind of mean-spirited of them...You would expect firecrackers in your satchel or hiding your favorite quill. But this? This feels like the kind of thing mean girls would do in a high school movie.

You huff and start to turn around, a little hurt. You’re not just going to stand here like an idiot. Maybe the twins don’t like you as much as you thought. That sucks...

“[First name]!”

George’s hushed voice comes from the shadows down the hall, and you turn back around, relieved. You hurry toward him—he’s leaning half-out of a hole in the wall you’re sure was not there earlier. A secret passage.

“Glad you made it,” he says, glancing behind you in case anyone else was coming. “We’re all just—” His brown eyes lock onto you at this point, and the words die in his throat as they slide slowly up and down your body. Then a grin spreads across his full lips. “Bloody hell,” he says appreciatively. “You’ve dressed up, haven’t you?”

You shrug, noticing he’s wearing a casual red sweater and khakis. “Too much?” You tug sheepishly at your skirt, wishing it were a little longer. Wishing your heels were a little shorter and your arms were covered.

But George is shaking his head. “You’re perfect,” he says, and he grabs your hand and pulls you inside the passage with him.

The bricks slide shut behind you with a satisfying grinding noise, and you follow George down a dark tunnel, his long fingers still around your wrist. Candlelight glows from the end through a crack in the door, through which also escapes the low hum of a dozen voices. You start to feel a bit nervous—you realize you might not know anyone else here.

Right before you get to the door, George stops you in the dark and pulls you close to him. He’s quiet for a long moment, regarding you thoughtfully, and your heart starts thudding. You can’t see his face clearly and you’re worried he’s going to try to kiss you or something. 

Instead, he brings a finger up to his lips and grins. “Follow my lead,” he says.

Motioning that you should stay still, concealing you in the darkness, George suddenly flies through the door, causing the laughter and voices to stop in shock.

“Quick!” George says, sounding panicked. “We’re in trouble! It’s — it’s —”

 _“What,_ Weasley?” comes a girl’s breathless, scared voice. 

George reaches back into the tunnel and drags you through the door.

“It’s a Slytherin!” he exclaims, and you’re met with a relieved wave of laughter as you stumble into the secret room. You giggle nervously, not liking that all eyes are turned toward you. 

“Bad form, Weasley!” Roger Davies calls from the corner, and a fresh wave of laughter ensues.

Looking around, you find that you were right—you know no one here very well but the twins and Lee Jordan. And you seem to be the only Slytherin at the party.

But everyone is smiling at you, friendly, and soon enough their eyes slide away, back to their own conversations. You pull away from George, who is still grinning at his stupid joke, and punch him gently in the shoulder. He pretends it knocked him back into the wall and killed him. You laugh.

“[Last name]!” Fred cheers, swaggering over with Lee and a pretty girl you recognize as Angelina Johnson. He’s loose and flushed, clearly drunk, and he hands you a bottle of wine before giving you a side-hug. “Now the party can really start.”

You smile at him, sipping your wine, looking around. The secret room seems to be for storage—barrels, shelves, miscellania. Around a dozen students lounge about, drinking various alcoholic beverages. 

“How’d you guys find this place?” you ask. “How’d you even get in?”

“Trade secrets,” Fred replies, nudging you playfully.

“You learn a lot, living six years in the same building,” George adds.

“Whatever,” Angelina says, rolling her eyes. She looks at you. “Lee was practicing _Alohomora_ in first year and literally fell into it. Doesn’t take a genius to get inside.” You laugh with her, slightly jealous that she knows the twins well enough to roll her eyes at their charisma.

“Yeah, yeah,” George says. “Give us points for luck, though.”

They lead you deeper into the room, where you take a seat on some boxes and start to sip your wine.

After a few minutes of conversation, you jump when you feel Fred reach over and lift a strand of hair from your shoulder.

“Hey, [Last name],” he says, his head tilted, examining your neck. “What’s that?”

You frown, hand coming up to check, but Lee sees what Fred does. He laughs. “That a _hickey?”_

You clap your hand to your neck, remembering Severus’ wet mouth there this morning. You suddenly can’t think of anything to say.

“Who’ve you been snogging?” Fred asks lightly, glancing at his brother. You look at George, too, but he’s not smiling. 

“No one!” you say. God, Severus, that _bastard._ Did he see it? Did he realize he’d made it? You hadn’t. You just thank god your uniform collar hid it for most of the day.

Fred is trying to pry your fingers from your neck, but you bat him away. “Sure,” he says. “Did it to yourself, did you?”

“Leave her alone, Fred,” Angelina says.

“Yeah,” you say, sticking your tongue out at him. “And stop pointing out my blemishes.”

Everyone laughs, and you laugh along. But you don’t drop your hand from your neck until you’re sure everyone’s attention is elsewhere.

You relax into the party, drinking and meeting the twins’ friends. Of course, you expect the twins to have impeccable taste in people, and they don’t disappoint. The crowd is mostly Gryffindors, and everyone is friendly and funny, there to have a good time. No one even mentions that you’re a little too dressed up to be here (note to self: sweater and jeans next time).

Good people, you decide. You sit back, sipping your drink. And good wine.

* * *

It’s Mrs. Norris who discovers the party. She has a way of slipping in and out of secret places, and tonight she’s prowling the vents in the east wing when she comes across a hidden chamber filled with candlelight. A dozen students crowd together in the old storage room, out well past curfew, clearly up to no good. She turns tail and runs straight to her master.

Filch, meanwhile, runs to Snape, who is probably the only teacher still awake at this time of night. The caretaker has a bad habit of this—he knows Snape is a bit nocturnal, so he usually comes to him first. Which is rather annoying, but honestly neither here nor there.

Snape sighs and heads to the east wing. He’s already irritated at being interrupted this late, and his mood darkens with every step he takes. Probably some stupid seventh years blowing off steam before exams. Well, now they get to do so during detention.

He knows the hidden room well; it’s hardly a well-kept secret. Students have been using it for clandestine gatherings since Snape’s days at school, and he has to bust a party there at least every few years. He taps the bricks outside McGonagall’s classroom and they slide open for him. He sweeps swiftly down the black tunnel to where light and noise is filtering through a half-closed door.

He knows the pleasure he feels when he slams open the door and scares the shit out of them is petty. But that doesn’t mean it’s not pleasure. A couple of the girls scream at his abrupt entrance, and most of the students gasp and struggle to hide their wine bottles (unsuccessfully). The room is suddenly deadly silent. 

A smirk works to keep from spreading across his face. It’s a gathering of mostly Gryiffindors, which is even better—and the Weasley twins, which is perhaps best of all.

He casts an icey glance across the room. “Well, well,” he says, “such a surprise. Here I was, simply meaning to retrieve a cauldron from storage. And instead I find...this.” He raises his eyebrows and looks at Jordan, who immediately looks away. “What a lucky coincidence.”

No one says a word, and Snape gives them a second to sweat before continuing.

“Fifty points from Ravenclaw,” he says, glancing at Roger Davies and Mala Fairview.

“Fifty!” Davies exclaims, horrified.

“And one hundred points from Gryffindor,” Snape continues. Murmurs and grumbling erupt around the room.

“That’s rubbish!” the Weasley twins exclaim together, and his eyes snap over to them...only to freeze.

You. You _damnable_ thing. You’re half-hiding behind the twins, biting your cheeks. Snape feels a cold wash of annoyance. Have you absolutely no sense? And what exactly is he supposed to do about this? You haven’t discussed the possibility of him disciplining you for breaking rules, but he can’t imagine you being happy about it. 

He trusted you to keep in line so you wouldn’t put him in this awkward position. After all, he can not in all good conscience punish you as if you are a regular student—the inequality of power there borders on abusive, and he will not allow this relationship to become unhealthier than it already is.

For now, he pretends not to see you.

“Enough,” he says loudly to quell the murmuring of the students, then he raises his wand to quickly vanish every wine bottle he sees. “Perhaps you’re lucky I was the one to catch you, as I don’t have the power to expel you,” he continues, and the Weasleys roll their eyes. “But rest assured, I will be giving my recommendation to your heads of houses.” He regards them coldly for another long moment, then steps away from the door. “Now get back to bed, all of you.” He waits a few seconds, but no one moves. _“Now.”_

Students flee quickly past him, heads ducked. The twins are clearly trying to guard you from his sight on your way out the door, and he almost lets you get past him. Almost.

“And [Last name],” he says, just as you pass by. “You will come with me.”

The Weasley twins send you looks of condolence, but you wave them on and come back to stand with him, looking ashamed. You’re both silent as the rest of the students disappear down the hallways, then Snape sweeps along toward the dungeons with you following in his wake.

He can’t deny he’s angry at you. Things like this would be so simple to avoid, to keep him out of these situations. And he doesn’t miss the way you sway as you walk, or the flush of your cheeks. You’re drunk. Deliberately doing stupid things with stupid people.

“Sev,” you say, once you’re alone, reaching out to catch his arm. But he pulls away from you.

“Quiet,” he snaps. “Until we’re in my office.”

You fall silent, biting your cheeks until you reach the dungeons, and he quickly pushes you into the privacy of his quarters.

Snape closes the door, leaning back against it, regarding you. You look simultaneously sheepish and annoyed. You know you’re in trouble, but you’re wrestling with it. How it must irritate you, he thinks, to feel like an adult, to be engaged in an adult relationship with a very adult man, yet to still have to bow to the rules of the school you attend. 

Regardless, Snape pinches the bridge of his nose. You’re not the only one who’s frustrated.

“You could’ve just let me go,” you say, seeming to read his mind. “Kept pretending not to see me. You didn’t have to set up this interaction.”

Snape drops his hand, regarding you. Some part of him likes it when you get angry—a mutual feeling, he suspects. That can’t be healthy.

“Have you so little self-control?” he asks, because it honestly is something that baffles him about you. “Is it so very _difficult_ not to attend illicit parties thrown by _children?”_

Your eyebrows raise, affronted. Snape realizes you’re a bit too drunk right now to edit yourself, and he regrets his words as you reply predictably.

“Those _children_ are my age, _sir,”_ you say. 

Snape flinches. That does not feel good, and your formality is another brutal little dig.

“Hardly,” he replies in any case. 

Because you both know your mind is well beyond your years. And anyway, you are nearly nineteen—older than everyone at the party. And a thousand other excuses Snape could come up with.

He steps toward you intently. “You put me in a very awkward position here, [First name]...”

“I know.” Your eyes dart away from him, and the sheepish look returns. You do feel bad, then. “I wish literally anyone else would have busted us. I’m sorry.”

Snape steps up to you, reaching beneath your chin to tilt your face up to his. He can’t exactly be mad at you for doing things adults would do. He’s not that much of a hypocrite.

“What do you suggest we do about it?” he asks. 

A slow grin spreads across your flirtatious mouth. “I can think of a couple things,” you purr. 

Snape rolls his eyes and drops his hand. “[First name]...”

“Okay,” you laugh. “Let’s say...ten points from Slytherin and a Saturday detention.” You raise your eyebrows at him. “Sound fair?”

“Is this how this is going to be?” Snape asks, feeling his lips twitch despite himself. “When you get yourself in trouble, we _agree_ on your punishment?”

You laugh. “Sounds fair to me.”

“This is absurd,” Snape whispers, crushing his mouth to yours, pulling your warm, soft body against him. He groans as your tongue flicks at his lips, but he pulls away. “It would be helpful if you endeavored, even _a little,_ to stay. Out. Of trouble.”

“And go against my nature?” you reply, laughing. “Impossible!” Snape rolls his eyes, pushing you away, sneering to show he means it. Finally, you shake your head and concede. “Okay, okay. I’ll be good.” You smirk. “Better, daddy?”

Snape’s eyebrows pop up at the nickname, and he glances at your cheeky grin, then rolls his eyes. He refuses to give you the reaction you’re going for. Jury’s out on whether he likes it, anyway. _Daddy._ Your age difference seems to turn you on, but it’s slightly uncomfortable for him. He’ll like it much more when you’re out of school.

“Fine,” he says flatly. “Ten points from Slytherin, detention on Saturday, etcetera, etcetera.” He sighs as he sits back in his chair, kneading his temples. “Now go to bed, you silly girl.”

You clasp your hands behind your back and pace up to him, rotating your shoulders, a mockery of innocence. You bite your lip, and Snape’s black eyes rove up and down your body, noticing your outfit for the first time. You’re not in your school uniform. In fact, you’re wearing _heels._

He’ll never understand the speed at which you turn him on. How do you do that?

“But I’m already here,” you say. Your eyes flick toward the corner, where the door to his bedroom is concealed behind a tapestry. You know because you found it one afternoon, wandering about and touching his things, but he still hasn’t let you inside. You’ve asked a few times. He always says no.

He doesn’t like the feeling the idea gives him. You, looking around his bedroom, stretching out on his bed. Leaving your scent on his sheets and his clothes and in his hair. It makes him feel...defenseless. Vulnerable. Like he’s rolling over and showing you the soft white of his belly, so you can inevitably stick your knife between his ribs. 

He knows it’s not fair to you—you are nothing if not trustworthy, and he is _trying_ to trust you. But trust does not come easily to Severus Snape. And he doesn’t think you realize what a sensitive topic it is for him—if you did, he’s sure you wouldn’t push so hard. Such as right now.

You start sliding toward the concealed door, finger tugging seductively down on your collar, exposing the curve of your breast. 

“We could just...go to bed...”

You play with the tapestry covering his bedroom door, biting your lip and giving him a look that clearly says he can do anything he wants to you. For a second, Snape is deeply tempted.

Then he is deeply annoyed.

“No,” he spits, sneering. You drop your hands from your shirt and the tapestry, a flash of anger across you face. “I told you to go back to your dorms. Now _go.”_

You give a surprisingly vicious glare, then stomp past him to the door. As usual, you get almost all the way across the room before your damnable mouth opens again.

“So you can fuck me in the hallway,” you spit, barely looking at him as you wrench the door open, “but you won’t let me spend the night?”

And you’re gone, slamming the door in your wake. Snape leans down to rest his head in hands. How does he always manage to infuriate you? It’s truly a talent.

And the question that scares him—how long will you put up with it?


	22. Hogsmeade and Yule Dates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say this? SnapeTok has ruined my life, I suspect in a similar way to how e-girls have ruined Corpse’s, but with less actual sex.
> 
> I love you my babies. Here's another long one. Sorry it took a while to post, but the next few should come out in fairly rapid succession. I'm very excited! We're almost at the Yule Ball...
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments. I know I don’t reply to all of them, but I read and cherish every single one.

* * *

_I said, “No one has to know what we do.”  
His hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room,  
And his voice is a familiar sound.  
Nothing lasts forever,  
But this is getting good now.  
He’s so tall and handsome as hell.  
He’s so bad but he does it so well. _

“Wildest Dreams” - Taylor Swift

* * *

It seems to be the way of things, that when you piss each other off, you give each other the silent treatment for a few days.

You’re not sure it’s strictly healthy, but you assume it’s better than screaming at each other, saying things you don’t mean. Severus has proven himself capable of telling lies meant only to hurt, and you certainly need to cool off before speaking to him. His refusal to let you stay overnight stings in a way you can’t quite explain. It cuts deep, deeper than perhaps it should, because it represents something you suspect will continue to be an issue with Severus: his refusal to let you in. 

It doesn’t take a genius to tell that Severus Snape has intimacy issues. Emotional intimacy, anyway. He seems more than comfortable with the physical stuff. It’s just, sometimes you think he’d breathe a sigh of relief if he managed to push you away completely. Sometimes you think back to those words he said beneath the stands that fateful day: “You are a nuisance to me. You are nothing more than a nuisance.” And you think those might have a ring of truth to them.

It’s a painful Idea. Because you’d be broken if it was true. It doesn’t feel good to have deeper feelings than your partner.

If he really cared, you think, he’d show it. At the very least, he’d let you sleep in his bed once in a while.

You avoid his eye during class, and he avoids being in his office during Felix maintenance—not even a note explaining his absence. If he’d been there, you might have apologized, tried to smooth things over. But he isn’t. Which probably means he’s upset with you, as you are with him. Though _why,_ you can’t say. He’s sure to have _some_ reason, though.

Whatever. This might be better, anyway. Your first midterm is Friday, and you need to spend every second of the next two days studying.

You do so, forcing the fight you’re having with Severus from your mind. (Is it really even a fight? This icey silence, then.) Friday comes, and your Alchemy exam goes fairly well—you’re almost certain you’ll get good marks, and if you don’t, there’s very little you could’ve done otherwise. You breathe a sigh of relief—no more exams until next Thursday.

On the way back to the common room after the test, the Weasley twins are suddenly on either side of you, walking with you.

“Wotcher, [Last name]?” Fred asks.

“Sorry about Wednesday,” George says, lowering his voice as you maneuver through crowds of students. “Didn’t go exactly as planned.”

You shrug, smiling. “It was fun while it lasted.”

“You’re still alive, anyway,” Fred says, and you quirk an eyebrow at him. 

“Thought Snape might’ve eaten you,” George adds. You have to bite your lip to keep from giggling. _I mean, he does_ sometimes. “Do you have detention for life, then?”

“No,” you say, “just this Saturday.” Fred and George’s eyebrows pop up, twin looks of surprise flashing across their faces. You rush to add, rather pathetically, “And he took points.”

“That wanker!” Fred shouts, startling a first year in front of you, who nearly drops his pet toad before scurrying out of sight.

“We got detention for a month!” George says angrily. You cringe, not sure how to explain this. Luckily, Fred saves you the trouble.

“He always goes easy on _Slytherins,”_ he says, sneering in a surprisingly nasty way. 

“Probably doesn’t help that you’re a pretty girl,” George adds, rolling his eyes. You scoff, sure your cheeks are glowing pink, but the twins just nod sagely at each other. “Git.”

Then Fred’s lips split into a mischievous grin. “Speaking of your prettiness...” He reaches over and tugs down on your collar, exposing the column of your neck. “How’s that hickey?” 

You push him away, a bit too embarrassed to laugh and glance at George, whose smile has slipped.

“C’mon, Fred..” he mutters, casting his brother a dark look.

But Fred just keeps grinning and nudging you. “Ready to tell us who you’ve been snogging?”

“No one!” you insist (lie).

“Yeah, you prat,” George says defensively, lightening up a bit and slinging an arm around your shoulder. “Besides, she’d tell us if she was, eh?”

“Oh, definitely,” you say, rolling your eyes. 

“Promise?” George adds, winking.

“Promise,” you reply flatly. “I’ll report to you two immediately.” The twins look delighted, and you shake your head. “Literally, I’ll stop mid-kiss and come tell you about it. Sound good?”

“You’ll never get any snogging done at that rate,” Fred says. Then he grins widely and throws a meaningful wink at his brother. “Exactly according to plan.”

You decide to ignore George’s smile and his red cheeks and the way he’s suddenly not looking at you. You just laugh and let the twins escort you to the dungeons.

That Saturday is a Hogsmeade weekend, and Benji and Colin convince you to come with them after you finish your detention—Severus had you cleaning cauldrons and, yet again, was not there to oversee. 

As soon as you enter the Great Hall, however, to see the boys waiting there with Brenna, Victoire and Alex, you realize what is really going on—a triple date.

Rolling your eyes, you join them nonetheless. Colin and Benji have a weirdly fervent urge to get you hooked up with someone, and they’ve obviously decided Alex is your best bet. Benji, in particular, is captain of that ship—he either ignores or doesn’t see how pushy Alex is—and Colin has warmed up to the French boy considerably since Alex helped him pass his DADA exam (Alexandre Arseneau is quite talented at defensive spells as well as potions—he says he wants to be an Auror.)

Once in the quaint little village, strung with lights and tinsel for the Christmas season, the six of you gather in the Three Broomsticks.

You don’t particularly want to—this was where you met Severus, and the memories it brings back make you flush. Besides, here’s a horrible thought—what if someone saw you back then? The barkeep or a waiter, even a custodian. What if they saw you kissing the Potions Master a few days before school started, and now see you again, dressed in your conspicuous Slytherin robes?

But no one even looks your way, so you relax after a while. Still, you try not to look toward the bar, where you first saw him. Alex puts his arm around you but is otherwise mostly a gentleman.

Maybe it’s the crowds, maybe it’s being in the place where this whole affair with Severus began, maybe it’s just that you haven’t spoken more than a few words to him in over 72 hours. But you start to get a headache. And you start to dwell a little. Brood on Severus and why has no right to be angry at you—you’re of age! You’re allowed to have a few drinks!—and wonder why he doesn’t want to let his guard down for you. Wonder, for the thousandth time, if you’re just sex to him. If he just tolerates your company because you bring him pleasure.

You stand up abruptly, startling Alex in the middle of his sentence, and start to maneuver around chairs and outstretched legs, trying to get away from the table.

“Just need some air,” you say, waving away Benji, who’s stood to help you. “I’m fine. I’ll just...meet you later.”

And you book it out of the pub.

* * *

Snape is just leaving Tomes and Scrolls when he sees you burst from the Three Broomsticks, your face drawn, eyes red, obviously upset. He watches you head across the village, frowning. It only takes a moment to decide to follow you.

He usually wouldn’t be caught dead in Hogsmeade during a student trip, but Christmas is coming up. And the question of a gift for you hasn’t left his mind since the first snow. It’s actually been causing a bit of anxiety—what does one get a beautiful young woman for Christmas? So he decided to just do something about it and place an order here in town.

Then again, if you’re still not speaking to him at the end of December, it all might be a waste of time anyway.

He shadows you as you make your way north, through the village and into the sparse smattering of trees beyond the borders. Where are you _going?_ You’re walking quickly, and you keep bringing a hand up to your eyes, sniffling. Did someone upset you?

 _Who do you think upset her?_ the voice at the back of his mind asks scornfully, and Snape cringes. You haven’t spoken for three days, and he’ll admit it’s starting to grate on him. It’s not that he’s trying to _punish_ you—though he reflects that it probably feels that way—but he hasn’t quite been able to work through this tangled knot in his chest. Conflicting emotions, frustration and guilt being the top two. It’s just easier to avoid. It’s what he always does.

But now, seeing you with red-rimmed eyes, running from the crowds, clearly needing to be alone—he wants to comfort. He wonders if he can.

Snape loses sight of you between the trees for a few minutes, but you’re sticking to a path, so he follows that. Very few know this, but a small river runs along Hogsmeade to the north, and that is where that path delivers him after a few more minutes—right at the rocky shore. 

You’ve stopped here. You stand with your back to him, watching the sluggish water, pieces of ice and snow swept along in its wake. You wrap the cloak very firmly around your slim frame, and your eyes clearly aren’t taking in your surroundings, so introspective and lovely it makes his chest ache.

You barely look over when Snape walks up beside you, robe sweeping over the snow-speckled shore. He wonders if you saw him following you, or if you merely sensed him there, a shadow at the back of your head.

You are both silent for a long moment, listening to the trickle of water. This river is high and wide in the summer—now it is a winter ghost, exposed bones of rock and mud. Snape shifts, feeling the stones beneath his shoes, the cold wind teasing the hair at his collar.

“This is...difficult for me,” he says finally. Your eyes dart over, lock onto his profile immediately, curious. Snape sighs, feeling like cringing, but he meets your gaze. “You must know that.”

“What is?” you ask, and Snape rolls his eyes. As if you don’t know. You’re being deliberately obtuse.

 _“This,_ you damnable girl,” he says, gesturing impatiently between you. _“This.”_ He purses his lips, closing his eyes to calm himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can’t look at you, but at least he gets his tongue to work: “I do not make a habit of... _romance.”_ He snarls the word, and his eyes open to watch your reaction. 

You purse your lips too, clearly trying not to scoff or reply. He can imagine your response being something like _Yes, that much is clear._ So he appreciates the attempt at mercy. But he sees it in your eyes.

Snape sighs and looks away. “This has the potential to be disastrous,” he says, staring out at the gray water. “To my life. To yours. You know that.” He shakes his head, sneering, his tone hardening. “I am trying to keep the situation in control, [First name]. So if I am sometimes less... _gentle_ with you than you feel you deserve—”

You do scoff now, cutting him off. “You think I’m mad because you can be harsh? Because you hurt my delicate _feelings?”_ you spit, turning to him. 

Snape turns to you as well, suddenly unaccountably thankful for your anger. Anger is something he can deal with. Spewing his emotions is not.

“Then what, if you _please—”_

“Give me a break,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “If my ego was that fragile, I would’ve been out of here months ago.” Snape smirks—yes, your ego is iron, but he feels it wouldn’t help to bring that up. You stare at him for a long moment. “Do you _really_ not understand why I’m upset?”

Snape thinks back to your conversation on Wednesday. You’d wanted to sleep in his bedroom, he had refused, you had stormed out. He assumed it was because he’d been too blunt.

“I will not play games, [Last name],” he replies, and you laugh, rolling your eyes.

 _“Look,”_ you say, striding toward him and pulling down the collar of your uniform to expose your lovely neck. Snape sees the bruise there immediately—a little faded, but still clear. He frowns. “That’s a hickey, _sir._ A hickey _you_ gave me when you were fucking me in a public hallway like some...” You hesitate, bite your cheek. “Like you didn’t give a shit.” 

Snape stares at you, shocked. You didn’t like that? You seemed to...You should have said something in the moment! He opens his mouth to say so when you hold up a hand, cutting him off.

“Which, that’s fine on occasion,” you assure him. “I mean, it was hot.”

“Then _what,”_ he says, annoyed, “is the _problem?”_

“You know what happened the next time we saw each other, Severus?” you snap. Snape regards you, eyes lidded.

“I seem to remember you drunkenly stumbling around my office, yes,” he replies coldly, and you glare at him.

“Right,” you say. “And I asked to stay. And for like the hundredth time, you kicked me out.” You laugh derisively. “Yet again, like you don’t give a shit! Like I’m just some _whore_ you use for kicks. And I won’t be _used_ like that, Sev. I won’t let you.”

You wind down, breathing heavily, and Snape stares at you. Shocked. Do you really believe him to be that much of an imbecile?

“Use you,” he replies, stepping toward you. He reaches out and forcibly tilts up your chin with one long finger, a bit of anger in the snap of his fingers. _“Use_ you? As if I am a teenaged boy, drunk off stolen wine?” He sneers, ripping his hand away. “As if I would risk this much. As if I would risk _everything,_ [First name]—simply for _sex.”_ He scoffs, almost laughing. “Of course, you are a beautiful girl. But if that was all there was to you, I wouldn’t look twice.”

He’s pleased to see you look mollified by this. You’re silent for a long moment, look softening, before a small smile tugs the corner of your seductive mouth.

“Then you do care,” you say, almost a question but not quite.

Snape rolls his eyes. “I would not be standing here if I did not _care,”_ he replies, barely managing to bite out the last word.

He mentally reviews your interactions since becoming intimate and realizes fairly quickly that he almost never says things to hint at that. Is that what you want from him? If so, you made a bad choice in a lover.

“I care too,” you say.

A warmth spreads through him despite himself. You made a bad choice, yes. But perhaps he could endeavor to try...

You bite your cheek, clearly deciding something, then speak in a rush: “And I want—I mean, I’m not seeing anyone else, currently. And I wouldn’t, I mean...assuming we’re exclusive.”

Snape regards you, a bit bemused. You’ve clearly been agonizing over this. It’s sort of cute. But mostly he feels an odd territorial instinct at the thought of you “seeing” someone else.

“We’re exclusive,” he replies, firmly but almost lazily. A slow smile crawls across your face nonetheless. _Exclusive,_ he thinks, scoffing. _Of course we are. Who else would I be seeing? Who could compare to this damnable girl?_

“Okay,” you say, smiling and looking down in an uncharacteristically meek way. “Cool. I mean, good.”

Snape desperately wants this conversation to be over, so he grabs you by the arms and pulls you against him. You tilt your head up, eager and smiling, and he kisses you. And he can’t help but feel lucky.

* * *

You spend a long time by the river, walking along the shore, talking, laughing. Sharing kisses and sharing stories. You toss stones in the water, competing to see how far you can throw (he always wins). He tells you of his first year teaching at Hogwarts, how he felt like an imposter among the other faculty until slowly claiming his place. And you tell him about America, about Salem and the things you got up to at school.

You catch his pale, slender hand in yours at one point, and he actually allows you to link your fingers through his. Until, that is, you get distracted by a stoat who just appeared between the trees, and you run to try to get closer, leaving him to roll his eyes.

It’s a lovely time. A beautiful time. You wish you could stay here forever. And you’re buzzing after your earlier conversation.

_He cares and we’re exclusive._

It feels unaccountably good. Like every stress has melted away. You should’ve brought this up a week ago instead of agonizing over it for so long. You understand him better now—you’ll have to go slow, chip down his walls block by block. But the walls themselves don’t mean his feelings are absent.

After a long time, Severus insists you head back toward town. You argue that you want to stay, but he just gives you a blank look.

“It’s getting dark,” he says flatly. “And you’re shivering.” His eyes flick up and down your form, clear distaste on his face. “Uncontrollably.”

He tends not to like it when you’re uncomfortable, you’ve noticed. So you roll your eyes and accept that you’re not going to be able to argue with him. You just hook your hand in the crook of his arm and let him lead you back down the path toward the village. Severus gives you one last, lingering kiss under the cover of the trees before disappearing down a different path.

You spend some time in the shops, desperately searching for a Christmas gift for Severus. But you’re drawing an absolute blank. What do you get someone like him? He doesn’t need more potions ingredients, and he owns every book on the planet (plus he’s weirdly picky about things like editions and cover material and quality).

You finally find a little pair of cufflinks you think he’ll like, but they only cost a few galleons, and you decide you need something else. You want this to be special. You doubt he’ll be getting many presents this year (or any year).

But Hogsmeade is failing you. Sighing, you start heading back to the Three Broomsticks, only to be intercepted by Benji and Victoire, faces red and glossy from the cold (and possibly a bit of making out). They ask you where you’ve been, and you make up some bullshit about a headache and getting distracted in the shops. Alex and the others have apparently already headed back to the castle, which is fine with you, and you start back with Benji and Victoire.

You smile and nod at their chatter, but mostly you’re thinking about Severus. More specifically, about his Christmas gift. This evening showed you very clearly that Severus Snape is a difficult man to shop for.

But about halfway from Hogsmeade, you’re hit with a flash of inspiration and you have to suppress the gasp. 

As soon as you get back to the castle, you rush to the owlery with a letter for Lysander to deliver. A letter to your father. He’s a ministry employee, after all, and he has a lot of connections. And frankly, for his absence throughout your childhood, he owes you some favors. 

Another week passes, and you survive your first set of exams at Hogwarts. It’s not too bad, all things considered, though the Potions test was a bit tricky and mean. You manage pretty damn well though, especially taking into account all your distractions this term.

More importantly, you and Severus are back to normal. Better than normal, actually—it feels good. Really good. Comfortable and stimulating and sexy and _right._ Classes ending means more free time to see each other, even if it also means more sneaking around. Sev’s happy about it, too, though he doesn’t outright say it. In lieu of that, on the final day of class he surprises you by pulling you back into the room as soon as the others trickle out. And he kisses you senseless, whispering, “Thank Merlin that’s over.”

You get his drift. One term down, two to go. And then you’ll graduate and you two can stop hiding. It’ll be a relief. And with the holiday break and the Christmas spirit in the air, you feel truly optimistic that the two of you can make this work.

Of course, you still have to be careful over break. Your friends might start noticing that you frequently disappear for hours if you’re not careful. But both of you are getting used to the secrecy, and you’re becoming remarkably good at it. You surprise yourself sometimes, how easily the lies slither from your lips. You wonder if that’s a positive thing or not.

But you wouldn’t trade it. You wouldn’t trade Severus for the world. He’s fascinating and brilliant and utterly complicated. He says something that surprises you every day, little hints to how he ticks and the places his mind goes. Your relationship is fulfilling and _far_ from boring. He makes you laugh and makes you moan and makes you think. He’s wonderful. 

He does keep you guessing a bit though. More than a bit. Severus is...guarded to say the least. Closed off. Even after the whole thing about you sleeping over, he still doesn’t let you. You get it, since your roommates would probably notice. But still...you really want to wake up next to him. You just can’t be sure if he wants that too.

You wish he’d just tell you. But he doesn’t tell you much. He still almost never waxes romantic, at least verbally. Rarely says sweet things when not in the heat of the moment, and even then they’re mostly tinged with sex and dominance. He’s trying, you can see that. But it’s a struggle.

You have to remind yourself again and again to go slow with him. Not to push him too hard, because he shuts down when you do. And you want him to trust you. You’re not sure, of course, but you think it’s starting to happen. Slow and steady wins the race.

Meanwhile, you start to be able to read him a little better. And that means reading his nonverbal signs of affection. The way he cups your face or neck when kissing you. The way he brushes your hair out of your eyes when you say something that makes him laugh. The way he hates it when you’re uncomfortable in any way. The smirk he sends you when he catches you staring. The way he’ll randomly grab and kiss your hand when you’re reading on the couch together.

And for now, it’s enough.

It’s a few days before Christmas. The energy in the castle can be described as nothing short of giddy as students prepare for the Yule Ball, comparing dress robes and practicing dance moves and getting dates.

No one has asked you to the ball. Not even Alex. You’re not sure how you feel about this. On one hand, there’s only one person you really want to go with, and that’s impossible. On the other hand, it’ll be embarrassing to go without a date. On the _other_ other hand, you might rather go alone than with Alexandre Arseneau.

Severus, for his part, is not upset about your lack of a date _at all._ You suspect he would secretly prefer you to become entirely invisible to the boys your age (or possibly all other males in general). 

“Here’s a radical thought,” he drawls one morning in that deep, lazy voice of his. “If it causes you this much distress, perhaps you’d be better off simply...not going.” He raises an eyebrow and adds, “Unlike some unfortunate bastards here, your attendance is not mandatory.”

You laugh at that. Severus does not want to go to the ball at all—he’s just required to. But _you_ want to. It’ll be fun.

That afternoon, you’re reading in a cozy niche on the ground floor of the castle, watching the snow come down through the wide windows. Severus is busy, and you haven’t seen your friends, so you take the opportunity for some You Time. 

Students loiter around the area, filling the hall with a pleasant, cozy buzz as they go about their winter afternoon. A few boys have started a snowball fight in the courtyard across from you, and a small crowd has gathered to watch. It feels nice. It feels like Christmas.

“[First name!]” 

You look up to see Benji down the corridor, striding toward you fast. You watch him approach, amused. He’s beaming, showing off his bright white teeth, and he’s slightly pink in the cheeks. He throws himself in the chair beside you, draping across it like a dramatic lord, staring dreamily up at the ceiling. 

“What a good day,” he says. “What an _excellent_ bloody day.”

“You finally get your period?” you tease, smirking as you look back down at your book. “Congratulations, Benji, you’re a woman now.”

“Har har, you wanker,” he snaps, reaching out to grab your book away from you. 

“Hey!” you say, reaching for it back, but Benji just holds it lazily away, riffling through the pages. This is one of Sev’s books, and you hope it doesn’t have his initials on it or something.

“No, _I_ just got my date to the ball,” Benji replies, falsely haughty, turning his nose up and closing his eyes. 

“Victoire?” you ask, smiling. Those two have been all over each other for weeks.

“Hell yeah, Victoire!” Benji says, pumping a fist to the sky.

You laugh. “I’m happy for you. And I love Victoire.” You point at him warningly. “Don’t you dare break her sweet little heart.”

“Thanks,” Benji says, finally handing your book back, grinning like mad. “It’s only a few days away. Can’t wait.” Then his expression falters a little. “Who’re you going with?”

“No one,” you say, slumping back in the chair, defeated.

Benji’s eyebrows pop up. “Seriously?” 

You shrug. “Nobody’s asked.”

“What about Alex?”

“Nope.”

“That arse!” Benji says, a look of guilt crossing his features. “Bloody hell, [Last name], if I’d’ve known...I wouldn’t have let you go alone...”

“And I wouldn’t have let you miss your chance with Victoire,” you reply firmly. “I’m honestly completely fine with it. I couldn’t care less.”

“We’ll have fun anyway,” Benji says, nodding. “All of us. Except Alex can fuck off. I can’t believe—”

At that moment, soft music starts playing in the hall around you, coming from an unknown source. You pause and sit up as something velvety drifts from the ceiling and lands in your lap. Frowning, you look down.

A rose petal?

And then another red petal lands beside it, and another and another. And suddenly there’s a shower of rose petals drifting like snow around you, and the phantom music has grown louder. You look at Benji, who seems just as shocked as you are. No rose petals are falling on him. You seem to have your own personal romantic storm cloud

Footsteps from behind cause you to turn. Other students are looking too—in fact, every eye in the hall seems to be on you and your flower rain—and many back away toward the walls to make room for none other than Alexandre Arseneau.

He struts toward you, looking very pleased with himself, holding a single red rose with petals to match the shower around you—which is kind of annoying, actually, the petals tickle your nose. 

Stopping before you, Alex drops to one knee and holds the rose out to you with a flourish. He grins roguishly, and you hear a fifth year girl near the back of the crowd sigh.

 _You can have him,_ you think, glancing at her with amusement. Then you turn your wry look at Alex, and your shoulders slump. To be fair, this is partially your fault—you’ve been letting him think you like him more than you do, though you haven’t said anything close to concrete. Mostly it consists of not blatantly knocking away his wandering hands, or giggling instead of hexing when he grabs at you.

“[First name],” Alex says, giving you the rose before taking your hands in his. “Will you do me the honor of going to the Yule Ball with me?”

You giggle at the formality and consider for a second. This is probably your first, last and only chance at a date. If you don’t go with Alex, you’re going stag. And while Severus has made his opinion on the matter abundantly clear, you think it would actually be better for your secret relationship if you accepted this invitation.

So you smile at Alex, who has his head tilted and is looking at you expectantly. And after a second, you nod.

The entire crowds erupts into applause. Benji jumps up and pulls you into a group hug, kissing you both on the cheeks.

You spend the next few minutes waving away congratulatory students—you don’t know any of them, but a lot of them seem aware of your name. You figure it’s simply because you’re the only American for hundreds of miles. And while the attention is well-meant, it annoys you. You would have preferred him to ask you quietly, instead of making a big production out of it. I mean, _rose petals? Seriously?_

Alex doesn’t linger too long, but you can tell you made him happy with your answer. Which is nice, you suppose. You’re trying to like him as a person, because everyone else seems to. But you just...don’t.

You want to find the comfort of Sev’s office—hopefully he finished whatever he was doing earlier and is waiting down there. It’s the only place you know you can be comfortable and left alone by people you don’t want to talk to. And if you get a little sex thrown in? All the better.

Smiling at these wicked thoughts, considering how you’re going to describe Alex’s proposal, you make your way toward the dungeons. Sev will laugh at the roses, you’re sure of it. The whole production will seem obscene to him. And he’ll be right.

You giggle to yourself, picturing the smile on his pale, angular face. He doesn’t laugh easily, but you can usually force them out of him, and you love the way he looks when he does. Easy and open for a few seconds, unguarded. A lot of times, he’ll cover his eyes with one hand, as if lowkey embarrassed by his own amusement. The thought amuses and makes you sad at the same time. Severus is the only person you know who considers his emotions useless, something of a burden. But he wouldn’t be the same without them.

You’re heading down the dungeon stairs when you hear rapid footsteps coming from the direction of Severus’ office, and you pause for a moment to see who it is.

To your complete surprise, George Weasley comes jogging around the corner. His entire face lights up when he sees you—that broad, charming, slightly crooked grin you’ve grown so fond of. You can’t help but smile back as his pace quickens.

“[First name!]” He takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches you, pausing on the steps below you. “I was looking for you!” He looks a bit flushed, a bit breathless, and you cock your head at him curiously.

“What’s up?” you ask, eyes softening as you take him in. He’s got his head tilted back to look at you, body language mirroring yours—one hand on the bannister, the other in his pocket. George is so annoyingly cute sometimes, you can’t stand it.

“I should’ve asked weeks ago,” he says, smile widening. “Dunno what I was thinking.”

“Asked what?”

“D’you want to go to the ball with me?” George says. And your heart plummets.

You feel suddenly unaccountably furious. Because yes, you’d _much_ prefer to go with George, but of course fucking _Alex_ had to ask first. Literal _minutes_ before George did. Nothing, nothing, nothing...then two proposals in one day. It’s so perfect, so ironic, you almost have to laugh.

“Goddammit,” you say in lieu of a response. “God _-fucking-_ dammit!” 

George leans back, surprised. “Wasn’t expecting that,” he says. “I’ve heard most people just give a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

You laugh, which makes him relax. “Yeah, I do want to go with you,” you say, disappointed, and you watch his eyes light up for half a second before you add, “but I can’t. Alex asked me first.” You scowl. “Literally a couple minutes ago.”

George laughs. “No way! Just tell him you’ve got a better offer.”

“That’s a dick move,” you say, shaking your head. “I can’t do that.”

“Or you could fake sick,” George continues. “And we’ll put you in a wig and hope he doesn’t notice.”

You laugh loudly. “I would’ve held out for you, Weasley,” you tease, “but you’re cutting it pretty close. The ball is the day after tomorrow.”

“Honestly,” George says, looking pained, “I was trying to plan this big thing to ask you. In the Great Hall, fireworks, confetti, the lot. Just embarrass the hell out of you.” You’re not sure if he’s joking or not, but you laugh. George sighs, also grinning. “But Filch caught us with the supplies a couple nights ago. Confiscated the whole thing.”

“I’m glad he did,” you say, and George pretends to be offended. “That sounds mortifying.”

“I’ll have you know, I’ve charmed _dozens_ of girls with my fireworks,” he says.

“I’m sure.”

There’s a moment of silence as your laughter fades, and George’s grin slips a little. But then he gears up and shrugs.

“Real shame,” he says. “But if you manage to ditch the French boy...”

“I’ll let you know.”

George smiles again and starts to move up the stairs past you, but you grab his robe to stop him and meet his eye. 

“I really do wish you’d asked first,” you say genuinely. And George’s wide grin is back. He nods, then bounds up the stairs on his long legs.

Sighing, you head to Sev’s office and knock before he lets you in. Throwing your bookbag on the chair and taking off your cloak, you quickly impart the last half hour to your Potions Master. He sits stoically behind his desk for most of it, but he stands when you reach the part about George Weasley. He paces, shaking his head as you finish the tale.

“Two dates, [Last name]?” Severus says, finally stopping in his tracks and folding his arms disapprovingly. 

“Well, no,” you reply. “I couldn’t say yes to George.”

“How marvelous it must be,” he says, tone flat and annoyed, “to have such an abundance of options.” A smile slides around your lips. Is that jealousy? You plant your hands on your hips, watching him, and he raises his brows at you. “Oh, please, do tell me more,” he continues, clearly derisive. “I _live_ to hear about your romantic escapades with other men.” He shrugs, leaning against his desk and looking very forbidding. “Not that George Weasley could be considered a _man_ yet.”

“Oh, come on,” you say fondly, coming toward him and pulling his arms away from his chest. He lets you, his lip twitching, and you press yourself against him, folding his arms around you. He sighs, resting his chin on top of your head. “You know they’re nothing,” you whisper. “Everything I do...it’s to protect us.”

Severus pauses as if surprised, then leans back a little and looks down at you, a frown creasing his brows, pulling at his mouth.

“Is it?” he says thoughtfully, examining your face, pushing your hair out of your eyes with a large, pale hand. 

You shrug, giggling, and nod. Severus nods back, seeming to believe you. Seeming to like it.

He cups your face between his hands and leans down to kiss you slowly, a more tender display than you’ve gotten used to over the past month. Smiling, you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss back. 

And you spend the rest of the evening cheering him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please PLEASE let me know what you think <3


	23. The Yule Ball - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very excited to start this little Yule Ball series. I've had it written for a long time, and I really like it. I hope you do too.
> 
> Also, I've been getting quite a few comments about this, so I wanted to address the George Weasley aspect. I understand that he's crazy adorable, and I totally get the shipping. I think IRL I'd be absolutely in love with the twins if I knew them personally. HOWEVER I wrote this fic with Snape as the main love interest. I'm not saying NOTHING will happen with George...but I don't want to get your hopes up if you're expecting this story to take a sharp left turn. Snape is end game. No one compares.
> 
> I hope that doesn't put you off! Like I said, George has quite a large role to play in the rest of this story and not all of it will be platonic. I just hope it'll be satisfying.
> 
> The response to the previous chapter was amazing. I can't believe I have over 400 kudos?? Seriously, you guys are incredible. I love you all.

* * *

_Still this pulsing night,_  
_A plague I call a heartbeat._  
_Just be still with me._  
_You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through._

“Cat People (Putting Out Fire)” - David Bowie

* * *

You stare at yourself in the mirror. It's the night of the Yule Ball, and this is the most beautiful dress you’ve ever worn—deep black with a structured bodice, two thin straps at each shoulder, and a full skirt with a slit up to the thigh. Your hair is lustrous and styled gently around your shoulders. Around your neck is a delicate silver chain.

You haven't seen Severus all day, and you want to show him. Watch his eyes widen, feel the heat of his gaze. Feel his large hands over the silky fabric. His is the only approval you crave. It makes you probably sadder than it should, the idea of going to this without him on your arm. Like missing a piece of yourself.

You check yourself. You really need to get that lovey-dovey crap out of here. You’re just infatuated—it doesn’t go deeper than that. It hasn’t been given _time_ to go deeper. And he never says much about his own feelings—as usual, he’s very guarded. So it’s best to keep guarded as well, even to yourself.

You stride over to your trunk to grab his gift, part of which your father finally sent, just in time. It’s wrapped in black paper, which you think he’ll like. One of the great things about this voluminous skirt is that it has pockets, and the gift is fairly small, so you slip it inside. Maybe you can give it to him in private if you see him at the ball. Hopefully you won’t have to wait until Christmas is technically over.

Sighing, taking one last glance at your reflection, you head upstairs to meet your friends in the Entrance Hall. You find Benji and Colin first—both absolutely dashing in black dress robes. Colin has an arm firmly wrapped around your roommate, Brenna, who is wearing an extremely flattering silk gown in lilac. You’ve never seen her so dressed up and feminine-looking. You ooh and aah over her for a solid minute.

“Well, what about you?” Brenna says, blushing, clearly wanting the attention off of her. “You look incredible.”

“Like a dream,” Benji agrees, smiling broadly. “Alex is a lucky bloke.”

“Speaking of which,” you reply, looking around the hall, “where are they?”

Colin spots Victoire a few minutes later, having just entered from the grounds with Alex, Remy and his boyfriend, Hutton. Victoire is model-stunning in her sleek, ink-green dress. 

“I thought,” she says, “since my date is a Slytherin, it was appropriate.” Benji beams and blushes.

Alex takes your hand then, kissing it gently. He wears black to match you, his tousled hair swept back in a way that reminds you of classic movie stars. But the air of the gentleman fades when he wraps his arms around your waist and brings you too close. He whispers in your ear that you look “good enough to eat,” which sounds fine on paper but is actually a bit creepy in practice.

Your impression of Alex seems to worsen every time you hang out. After you get through tonight, you tell yourself, you’ll break everything off with him. Severus is getting less and less patient with it, and honestly so are you.

Victoire has a little flask filled with some kind of cognac, and she passes it around the eight of you as you linger in the hall, watching swarms of students pass by. You think the flask is probably enchanted to keep refilling itself, because when a half hour goes by and your head starts buzzing pleasantly, the flask feels just as full as ever.

You watch for Fred and George, but you don’t spot them. You hope George has a date. You’re still a little resentful toward Alex for asking you to the ball first.

You’re feeling good, having fun, enjoying company. Besides Alex, honestly, who is too handsy and usually doesn’t add much to the conversation. Why people like Remy, Hutton (who is particularly hilarious) and Victoire even hang out with him, you’re not sure. Maybe just his looks?

Finally, once the crowd thins a little, your group heads into the Great Hall, which is decorated in what you’re coming to know as Hogwarts splendor. The walls are sparkling silver frost, garlands of mistletoe and ivy criss-crossing the starry ceiling above. The house tables are gone—in their place, many smaller round tables, each seating about a dozen people.

You choose a table and get settled, and soon McGonagall leads the champions and their partners into the Hall. Harry Potter is with a pretty Indian girl you don’t know—not that that’s surprising, you barely know anyone. Cedric Diggory’s date is also unfamiliar, though you’ve heard enough from Harper to guess this is probably Cho Chang. Fleur Delacour is on the arm of Roger Davies, who you actually have Herbology with, and who clearly can’t believe his luck. And Viktor Krum is, again, with someone you don’t know. Though she looks kind of familiar.

Not that it really matters. Since stepping into the Hall, you’ve been looking around pretty much solely for Severus Snape. He’s not up at the head table, where the champions are seating themselves with Dumbledore, Karkaroff, Maxime, Ludo Bagman and some red headed young man. Otherwise the teachers are scattered around, sitting next to students, mingling. You smirk. He probably _hates_ that. You wish he’d find your table.

A few minutes go by before you catch sight of him. His table is near the opposite wall, and you see Terrance and Julia there with him (they came together, a move which surprised no one in Advanced Potions _besides_ Terrance and Julia themselves). At least Severus isn’t left to company he completely despises. He’s even smiling a little, the expressive lines at the corners of his mouth showing themselves.

You relax, looking at his profile. His silky hair falls neatly around his collar—as usual, he wears black, but the suit jacket is longer and more formal than usual. It hugs his slim body so beautifully you can’t wait to take it off of him. And his pale face and hands...so striking against all that dark fabric. You want to run over to him, meet those incisive black eyes. Get him to lift those expressive brows from their permanent furrow. 

You sigh, placing your chin in your hand. And his mouth, now let’s talk about this. Wide, full, soft. Constantly dropping dry sarcasms so funny they make you shriek. Or kissing gently, or kissing hard, or whispering your name, breathing into your ear. And those lines around the corners...god, you love those lines. Love kissing them. They make his lips so interesting...

“[Last name]. Earth to bloody [Last name]!” A hand is waved in front of your face, and you jerk back to the present. The whole table is looking at you.

“Sorry,” you say, laughing and burning red. “I was totally spacing.” You raise a cup randomly to your mouth, only to find it’s empty. 

“Who were you looking at?” Colin teases, craning in his chair to try to see the direction of your gaze. “Your secret crush you won’t even tell me or Benji about?”

“Well, he doesn’t exist, so...” you reply, gaining your composure and your dryness back quickly.

“You did look a little like a love struck puppy,” Remy puts in, smirking at his man, who nods in agreement.

“Impossible,” you say, waving a hand and glancing warily at Alex, whose look has darkened considerably. “I was just—I mean, look around, you guys!” You gesture grandly at the Entrance Hall. “It’s like a fucking fairy ball. How am I not supposed to look all whimsical?”

“Agreed,” Brenna puts in. You glance at her, surprised. Brenna almost never speaks up like this, but the other girl is watching you, understanding in her eyes. _Deep_ understanding, almost like she knows. Brenna shrugs as you keep staring. “I mean, it’s magical.”

At this point, everyone in the Hall is seated, and Dumbledore stands, which makes the crowd quiet significantly. The headmaster lifts up his menu, copies of which are set on all the empty golden plates in the Hall, and speaks firmly: “Pork chops!”

The entire Hall follows his lead. You order what turns out to be an incredible filet mignon, and the table wrangles an enthusiastic house elf to make sure your wine glasses never empty. After a dessert of rich chocolate cake, you’re fairly sure you’ll never eat again, and you honestly can’t believe you’re still fitting into this dress.

Then Dumbledore stands and asks all the students to do the same. With a wave of his wand, the tables zoom back against the walls, leaving the floor clear. He conjures a raised platform and sets a set of band instruments upon it—drums, guitars, a lute, a cello and some bagpipes.

Your heart sinks as you clutch your stomach. Dancing. How are you supposed to dance on all this food?

But then the Weird Sisters enter, with their strategically ripped robes and their long hair, and the crowd goes wild. The champions are up first, awkwardly leading the first dance, but soon others spill onto the floor. And you forget how full you are as Benji and Colin pull you into the fray. You laugh and spin from partner to partner, surrounded by friends, by those you care about.

Save for Severus. And that makes your heart twinge a little, that you can’t pull him into the crowd of dancing students and force him to sway with you—it’s tempting, but how would that look? So you try to focus on what you _can_ have, and you laugh and dance with your friends.

* * *

Snape knows you’re stunning—he notices every day. But when the crowd parts, and he catches sight of you, dancing in that black gown, he finds he can’t look away.

Snape sips his wine, pretending to listen to Flitwich beside him, blathering on about how long it took him to decorate the Great Hall. You are surrounded by friends, talking and smiling. That Arseneau boy is nowhere in sight, off getting punch, and Zabini has eyes only for his date, which is all the better. You look like you’re having fun. You look happy. It’s all he can hope for, yet still he feels that sinking jealousy. He hates when you invoke that in him.

Enough. Snape is finally about to force himself to look toward his colleague, when suddenly you meet his eye and beam.

Stunning? You are _radiant._ You light up the whole room. His mouth twitches in response, and he briefly lifts his cup to you.

You quirk an eyebrow, nodding toward the corridor, your meaning clear— _let’s find a quiet place._ Glancing down, Snape notices Filius is still blithely talking beside him, noticing nothing. He knows it’s dangerous, but perhaps the wine has gone to his head already. 

So he sends you a quick, almost imperceptible nod. You catch it and immediately disappear back into the crowd.

In a move so practiced over the past few weeks it’s almost second nature, Snape counts to thirty before excusing himself from Filius and taking a different path to the corridor. He arrives just in time to see your long black skirts swish around the next corner.

Snape hurries to catch up. The music is fading, the hallway dark and empty. He reflects, as he has so many times this month, that Hogwarts is host to thousands of dark, quiet corners where no one can spy.

He watches you slip into a recessed window, sending a coy look over your shoulder before disappearing between heavy brocade curtains. Snape follows only after looking around for interlopers and finding none. As usual, he is the more careful of your pair, which always frustrates him. But at least it hasn’t blown up in your faces yet.

You’re turned from him, looking out to the enchanting view of the snow-covered grounds, when he twitches aside the curtain and joins you in the niche. His hands go unerringly to your waist, molding to it like you’re made for each other. You sigh, melting back into his arms, and he leans down to whisper against your smooth bare shoulder.

“You are heartbreakingly beautiful.”

You press further against him, giggling. “Have you been rehearsing that line since you saw me?”

“Before, actually,” Snape replies, lips twitching. “I read it somewhere. Thought it apt.”

You turn to kiss him over your shoulder, lips sweet and soft, tasting of cognac and cream.

“You like my dress?” you ask. Snape’s eyes graze across it, barely taking in the dress itself.

“I like it on you.” You laugh again, turning fully in his arms so you are facing. He keeps his hold around you, unable to stop staring. His girl. His beautiful, damnable girl.

“Romantic tonight,” you say, a flicker of inquiry in your wide eyes. Snape sighs. He’s not sure why he didn’t expect you to immediately call him on it.

“It’s...difficult not to be,” he admits. “You, looking like this. The stars. The snow. And...” He shakes his head, grimaces. “I realized how rarely I say sweet things to you, [First name]. I realized how often you deserve them.”

Your eyes fill with affection, so pure and true even Snape can read it there. You kiss him again, long and slow.

“I’m not complaining,” you whisper against his mouth. “But at least when you do say sweet things, I know they’re true.”

“They’d be true in any case,” he rumbles. You really shouldn’t be letting him get away with this so easily. You both know that. You nod, shrugging and leaning away.

“Fine,” you reply. “Be sweeter to me, then.”

“I will do my best,” Snape says, smirking, and pulls you into another kiss. 

Your lips open, more heat, more desire, your tongues slipping out against each other. Snape’s hands sweep up your bodice, feeling the body beneath. Considers ripping it off you.

He groans when you bite his lip. The pair of you have a bad habit of making public areas your personal love-nests, and currently the rest of the school is a little too close for comfort. But this chemistry is overwhelming at the best of times, and there’s something in the air tonight, something about your skin against those yards of black fabric. 

He pushes you backwards onto the window ledge, leading with his hips, and it’s amazing how easily your legs spread for him. How effortless it is to glide his hand down between the slit in your skirt and feel your soft skin.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper as he slides his tongue down your jawline, along your throat. You guide his black-clad arm up your thighs, sighing as his middle finger brushes the lace you wear between them. He returns his mouth to you, lips open together, breathing into each other. His strokes are barely whispers, just the hint of his fingertips, but it’s making you gasp and fist your hands in his hair.

“I miss you,” Snape says against your lips, “the moment you leave my sight.” He doesn't want to admit that—it feels too vulnerable. But he _is_ endeavoring to be sweeter. And you seem to like it. You giggle prettily, pressing closer.

One long, pale finger slips beneath your underwear, and you hiss. The unbidden noise of pleasure makes him groan, makes goosebumps erupt across his spine. Burns the entire world away. _Damn this girl..._

“I saw her come down here.”

A voice from the hallway. You stiffen, throwing your hand over Snape’s mouth as though _he_ is usually the one making all the noise. He detangles his fingers quickly from your skirts. 

“Yeah? Maybe she’s just in the loo.”

 _Fred,_ you mouth at him.

“[First name]?” the other voice calls out. And who else would it be but his twin, George. Snape can never tell them apart anyway.

The footsteps of the two boys get closer, and Snape runs a hand through his hair, glancing down at you. You’re gorgeously tousled, flushed and glossy in the face. Your lips are swollen, your skirts are bunched up. It’s not hard to see you’ve just been thoroughly kissed.

Snape assumes he, of the two, is more composed (as usual). So he simply puts a finger to his lips to bid you silent. Then he steps out of the curtains, leaving you to gather yourself.

The Weasley twins stop in their tracks, clearly surprised that the Potions Master just popped out of a niche in the wall. He merely cocks an eyebrow, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. Let them ask about it. He dares them.

“Professor,” Fred says, instantly breaking into that annoying grin he wears when he is up to no good. 

“Just the man we want to see,” his twin chirps cheerfully.

“Have you seen [Last name] come this way?” Fred asks. “George reckons —“

“I have not,” Snape replies, giving them his best _I know you’re up to something nefarious_ look. The boys glance at each other, grinning nervously, as if out of habit. Then Fred rocks back on his feet, stumbles a little. And Snape remembers the alcohol he tasted on your lips. Doubtless more than one hidden flask in circulation tonight...

_Perfect._

“Up to trouble tonight, Weasleys?” he says, soft and deadly, eyes locking onto the visibly drunk boy, who stiffens but otherwise gives very little away. The smile on his twin’s face, however, has vanished. “Having a few...drinks?”

“No, sir,” they reply in tandem, a little insolent. They’re always a little insolent.

“If you were,” Snape goes on, “I would find a different corridor to do it in.”

“Right,” George says quickly, grabbing his brother by the sleeve. “We’ll just head back to the dance, then.”

“Excellent idea, Weasley,” Snape says, making sure to sound utterly bored. And then, because he can’t help himself: “And if I do see [Last name], I’ll be sure to let her know where she can find you.”

“Right,” George says. “Right, thanks, sir.”

The boys turn and disappear from sight as fast as they can. He snorts, turning back to the window. Opening the curtain, he finds you with your hand over your mouth, eyes streaming, trying to fight the laughter.

“Never less than amused by my intimidation tactics,” he sighs, hiding himself in the niche again. 

“God, it never gets _old!”_ you exclaim. “Did you hear George’s voice? It went up like twelve octaves!”

“Shhh,” Snape says, chuckling as well and pressing closer to try to muffle you both. 

“You’re so _scary,_ Professor,” you whisper, nipping at his ear, which sends shivers across his entire body. His responding groan turns into a growl, and he attacks your mouth passionately, his hands going back to your bodice, feeling, rubbing...

“We shouldn’t,” you whisper, pulling back. “Not here.”

Snape exhales, resting your foreheads together. You are correct. Unfortunately.

“Go back to your friends,” he whispers, voice rough. “Enjoy the ball.”

“I wish we could dance together,” you tell him, an echo of true sadness in your tone. 

Snape wishes he could give you that, too. He feels suddenly like a failure. Like slime. He hates that.

But the faint strains of a slow song are echoing down the hall, so Snape takes you into his arms, wraps your hands around his neck, and rocks you back and forth to its rhythm.

“What do you call this?” he asks sarcastically. 

He hears your sad little laugh in his ear, and you nuzzle into his neck, and that familiar heat floods through him. A heat so heady and all-consuming, he knows it’s dangerous. He knows he should guard himself from it before it deepens into something he can’t take back. Something that could destroy him.

But with your warm body pressed so close against him, with your arms tight around his shoulders as if you never want to let go—he thinks it’s worth it. Hopes it is, anyway.

_Despite the fact that I do not deserve her._

It takes every ounce of his strength to stop your slow dance and release you. 

“Mm-mm,” you moan in protest, trying to cling tighter, but Snape just chuckles and pushes you away.

“People will start to wonder,” he says. He feels strangely melancholy at the thought of you going. He hates that too.

You just sigh and gently kiss his cheek. “Thanks for the dance, Professor.”

Snape chuckles, shaking his head. You smirk at him and start to leave the niche when Snape whips around, feeling the words bubble up, feeling desperate. Regretting your going already.

“Later?” he asks. And when you turn back to him, you’re beaming in a way that makes his heart break.

“Later,” you affirm. And you sweep down the hallway.

Snape gives himself another ten minutes in the window niche, staring out to the snow and thinking of your skin. Then he returns to the ball, finds himself a space along the walls and watches the proceedings in silence. And has another few glasses of wine.


	24. The Yule Ball - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains attempted sexual assault.
> 
> It's fairly short and not gratuitous, but I don't want to catch anyone by surprise.
> 
> While we're on the subject, I know I've said this before, but I plan for this story to get quite a bit darker. I guess, consider this chapter the beginning of that. Of course, there will still be plenty of fluff and smut. But since we're following the overarching HP plot, angst should be expected.
> 
> Oh also: one of these conversations is word-for-word from the book.
> 
> I love you so much my babies. Drink water.

* * *

_Warn your warmth to turn away.  
Here it's December every day.  
Press your lips to the sculpture and surely you'll stay.  
(Love like winter)  
For of sugar and ice  
I am made._

"Love Like Winter" - AFI

* * *

You make your way back down the corridor, humming dreamily to yourself. You can still feel the memory of Severus’ warm hands and lips. You like it when he’s sweet to you, you decide. You hope he’ll keep his promise to continue that trend.

As soon as you enter the Great Hall, you’re detained by two excitable redheads in cream colored dress robes.

“[First name]!” they say together, wrapping you in a group hug. You laugh, a bit overwhelmed.

“Been looking for you,” George says cheerfully.

“Where’s your French bloke?” Fred asks. “Ditched you already?”

You laugh, roll your eyes. “I wish,” you say honestly, which makes George beam. “He’s been on me like sick in a hospital. I had to get away.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you came back,” George replies. 

“Yeah,” Fred says, nudging his brother. “George has been dying to ask you—”

“Oi!” George says, pushing him gently away, laughing. “I can do it!”

“If you say so,” Fred replies, rolling his eyes. He winks at you and starts to back away. “Best be off then. Angelina can’t stand to be away from me.” And straightening his tie, he saunters into the crowd.

Laughing, you turn to George, raising your eyebrows. “What’d you wanna ask?”

The cute redhead merely holds out a large hand to you and grins charmingly. “Wanna dance?” he says.

Laughing and shrugging, you let him sweep you into the fray. His lanky arms wind around you, surprisingly firm and strong. The song is pretty fast paced, and he spins you around until you’re breathless. He’s not a bad dancer, actually.

“Where’s your date?” you say, raising your voice over the music as you move together. 

“Resting,” George yells back, gesturing over to the wall where a group of girls is chatting. “Wore her out.” You think you saw him earlier with the pretty brunette there, and you smile. That eases the guilt a little.

“What’s her name?”

“Mala,” George replies. “She’s in Ravenclaw.”

“And are you...” You raise your eyebrows suggestively, and he laughs. 

“Nah, don’t you fret, love,” he says, pulling you closer. “My heart belongs to no one but you.”

You just giggle and roll your eyes. You know he asked you to the ball, but you really hope he’s joking and that his feelings don’t run deep. You want to keep this friendship intact. And frankly, if Severus wasn’t in the picture, you’d be all over George Weasley.

But Severus _is_ in the picture. And no one compares.

After a while, which you spend dancing only with George—Fred and Lee are conspicuously absent, which worries you even more—the tune changes to something softer and slower. George cocks an eyebrow at you, holding out his hand with a smirk, and you hesitate. Dancing a slow song with him will probably give the wrong impression...

But then you see Alex moving toward you, pushing through the crowd, clearly bent on whisking you away. And you quickly take George’s hand and allow him to pull you against him. Alex glowers and turns around, and you sigh.

George places his large hands on your hips while you wind your arms around his neck, resigned. He smells good, like candy and cologne, and you really do feel a lot of affection for him. So you suppose one little slow dance won’t hurt.

He pulls you a bit closer as you sway, a grin lifting one corner of his mouth.

“So,” he says, “there is actually something I’ve been wanting to ask.”

_Oh no..._

“Oh, yeah?”

“You know I like you, yeah?” he says, still grinning. Your heart sinks. Please, _please_ no...At your silence, he continues, unphased. “I mean, you’re funny, you’re cool, you’re gorgeous. What’s not to like?”

“Oh, George...” you say, biting your cheek. He sees the hesitance on your face, and his eyebrows raise.

“It’s alright if you don’t feel the same,” he says lightly, not seeming disappointed or embarrassed in the slightest. “It just would’ve been really thick of me, not to say something. In case you did.”

“Of course I like you,” you reply honestly. “Just...”

“Not like that?” 

Well, that’s not exactly the truth, is it? You do have a little crush on George. It’s hard not to. He’s cute and funny and charismatic. You just have much deeper feelings for Severus. 

George still looks completely unabashed—more genuinely curious than anything. At least he’s confident and mature enough that this won’t shatter him or something. You wrestle silently with yourself for a few seconds, weighing the risks of leading him on or lying to him. 

“I’m seeing someone,” you blurt, finding a way out of this. “He’s...in the states. Long distance, you know?”

George nods, smile widening. “Fred owes me a galleon,” he says. “I bet him you had a boyfriend.”

“You’re making bets on me?” you laugh, lightly slapping his shoulder. He just laughs, shaking his head.

“Course you’re taken,” he says, thoughtful. “All the good ones are.” Then he grins wickedly. “But if something happens...”

“You’ll be the first to know, Weasley,” you reply, rolling your eyes. George chuckles and pulls you into a little hug. And as the music picks up pace again, you continue to dance.

* * *

Snape tries to keep his eyes off you, he really does. But the more goblets of wine he drains, the more impossible it becomes. No one approaches him or even looks his way, so he allows himself to watch you, laughing and spinning, outshining everyone in the Hall.

The boys gaze at you, star-struck—Snape wonders if you know one of the Weasley twins (not sure which) is in love with you. You’re currently dancing with him, so he supposes you have a fairly good idea. And though you tell Snape that the others are nothing compared to him, he still doesn’t want to share you. He watches as the boy takes your hand and does a jig with you, spinning you around. Despite all his flaws, at least Weasley is respectful, a relatively good man, a good friend.

As if in direct contrast, at that moment, that little snake Arseneau grabs you from behind and pulls you away from Weasley. Snape’s face slides instantly into a sneer. It must be fearsome, because a nearby fourth year pales and chokes on his drink.

Snape moves away, sliding along the wall, his gaze fixed on you and Arseneau. You’re smiling, not even trying to pull away from the boy, despite his hands fumbling their way along your bodice.

He can’t watch this.

You told him Arseneau was just a front, something to keep the others from learning about you and Snape. But how far does the charade have to go? Not an hour ago, you were panting into Snape’s ear—is it so easy to switch to Arseneau? Will you be bloody _snogging_ him next? Will you realize you have much more fun with boys your age than with dour old Potions Masters? How soon after the ball will your message come that you are leaving him?

Against his better judgement, Snape glances back at your pair. The boy is all hands, and you have your palm on his chest, pushing against him. Smiling, still smiling—but Snape knows you well enough to read the tension there.

Then Arseneau whispers something into your ear, and you shiver in a way Snape is familiar with—the way you shiver when it is _his_ breath, _Snape’s_ breath in your ear. And you blush and giggle beautifully. And Snape feels keen, white rage filling every cell.

Snape backs himself into a corner to watch the interaction without anyone noticing. Not that the crowd has eyes for his grim form—the Hall glitters and glows around him. There is dancing and music. As usual, he is separate from the warmth and light. And he is watching the only woman who makes him feel any heat make eyes at another man. A _boy._

Arseneau tugs your hand and starts leading you to the Entrance Hall. You glance around, clearly scanning for Snape, concern between your brows—guilty conscious, [Last name]?

 _That is unfair to her,_ he tells himself. He trusts you—your integrity and loyalty. But all the same, your abandonment seems inevitable—he is, after all, unworthy of you. So perhaps it’s good that this is happening only a month into your relationship, before the wound will be so much deeper.

 _Bugger that line of thought,_ Snape decides as Arseneau pulls you out of the Hall. Is it his imagination, or is the boy being a little too firm? He beelines after you only to be stopped by the crowd. By the time he exits into the cool night air, he’s lost sight of you entirely.

Fury rips through him, imagining you and Arseneau cozied up in the bushes together. Snape growls, winding down the paths into the rose garden, swatting drifting fairy lights out of his way. A giggle to his left—Snape lunges through the bushes to find two students latched together at the mouth. Blessedly, not you and Arseneau.

“Ten points from Slytherin,” he says, recognizing one of the kids. The other is a Durmstranger, he’s fairly sure. They blush and scramble away from him. Snape sneers—these bushes are probably full of couples. He’s going to be taking a lot of points, it seems, until you are found.

“Severus!”

The voice is irritatingly familiar. Snape turns around to see Karkaroff striding up the path and has to really try not to roll his eyes.

“Igor,” he greets, flat. This interaction is one he has held off for a long time—perhaps too long. He still doesn’t want to have to deal with it, though, especially right now.

Karkaroff looks relieved as he catches up with Snape, who immediately begins moving again, shooting a sharp look at a couple sitting a little too close to each other on a bench. Karkaroff seems to be choosing his words.

“What is it?” Snape demands, sounding as bored as he can. As if he doesn’t know exactly what Karkaroff wants to discuss.

The other man is confused too. “Haven’t—you haven’t...”

“I haven’t—I haven’t _what?”_

“Severus.” Karkaroff grabs his arm to stop him, leaning close—Snape smells the whiskey on his breath and leans back, disgusted. “The Mark. Look!” He rips up his sleeve, baring a Dark Mark that looks much like Snape’s—jet black against pale skin.

“Put that down, you fool,” Snape hisses, forcibly tugging Karkaroff’s sleeve back over his arm. He glances around to make sure they have not been overheard, then sweeps away. _Where the hell is that damnable girl?_

“Then you _have_ noticed,” Karkaroff continues, nipping at his heels like an anxious dog.

“Of course I have,” Snape replies, not looking at him. “I am not blind.”

“What will we do?”

 _“W_ e will do nothing. There is nothing to be _done.”_

“You can’t mean that!” Karkaroff is desperate, his hands coming up to tug at Snape’s robes. Snape shakes him off roughly and blasts apart a trembling rosebush with his wand, causing the figures within to squeal and race away.

“Of course I mean it,” he replies, sighing, turning back to his colleague. “I really don’t see what there is to fuss about, Igor.”

"Severus, you cannot pretend this isn't happening!” Karkaroff’s voice drops to a whisper, which is clever of him, as the garden seems to be teeming with horny teenagers. "It's been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can't deny it—”

"Then flee," says Snape curtly. "Flee—I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.”

They come around the next corner, and Snape blasts another shrubbery to find two kids making out. They sprint away. Still no sign of you.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett!" Snape snarls at the retreating students. "And ten points from Hufflepuff too, Stebbins!”

Then he turns and notices bloody Potter and Weasley, standing at the head of the path and gazing at him like they’ve caught him in something. They’re always looking at him like that, so suspicious, as if they know anything. It’s tremendously annoying. 

“And what are you two doing?" he adds, causing the boys to freeze. Karkaroff’s hand goes nervously to his goatee, and he begins winding it around his finger. 

Did they overhear their conversation? What would they make of it?

"We’re walking," Weasley tells Snape with the insolence he now expects from the Golden Trio. "Not against the law, is it?"

"Keep walking, then," Snape snarls, and he brushes past them, his long black cloak billowing out behind him. Karkaroff hurries away after him.

“We really must talk,” Karkaroff continues, once they leave the boys out of earshot. Snape finally halts in his tracks and spins on him.

“No,” he drawls. “We really must not.”

“But Severus—”

“There is nothing to be done,” Snape repeats. “And nothing to talk about.”

He sweeps away. The other man finally gives it up as lost, and Snape hears him slink down the paths in the opposite direction. 

* * *

Alex seems to know where he’s going. He finds you the cover of a dark gazebo in the center of the garden in about two seconds flat. Did he scope this place out earlier? Getting to know him, you wouldn’t be surprised. He isn’t just forward, he’s _pushy_ and _cocky_ and more than a bit _conceited._

Still, against your better judgement, you sit with him. And he holds your hand and tells you all the nice things boys are supposed to say. Things about how beautiful you look, how he really feels like you have a connection. But unlike George and his sweet little speech earlier, there’s no feeling behind it. Alex has memorized a script. He’s just trying to get up your skirt.

So you feel absolutely zero guilt about telling him you don’t think of him like that.

And suddenly his hand around your wrist is vice-like. You try to stand, but Alex simply pulls you back down and wraps his arms around you. And he kisses you against your will.

You honestly can’t believe his gall. You rip away, almost laughing, but he simply lunges again, forcibly grabbing the back of your head. His lips are chapped and his tongue is too eager.

This time, you use your hands against his chest. “No. Jesus, Alex, _stop!”_ You’re pushing him away. Hard. But he’s not letting you. His arms tighten, and a hand goes under your skirt to your knees. You freeze in shock, staring at him, furious.

“Come on,” Arseneau wheedles. “Are you a tease?” And he pulls you close again. 

_“Stop,_ Alex!” you say again, laying a hand fully on his face to push him away. He grunts angrily, pushing back. And feeling the strength in his arms, seeing the determined look on his face—you start to get scared.

“You have been flirting with me since I arrived here,” he insists. “If you don’t want this...”

“I don’t!”

 _“Salope,”_ he spits. “You are a _whore.”_

 _“Fuck you,”_ you spit back, starting to really fight, unable to believe this is happening. This is supposed to be a magical night.

Your increased efforts infuriate Alex, and he seizes a chunk of your air, ripping your head back. You cry out, and he slams a rough hand over your mouth. You throw your arms out, but he’s much stronger than you, and he rolls you over onto the marble gazebo floor, landing on top of you.

Your breath leaves your body as his elbow slams into your ribs—you don’t think he meant to hurt you, not that it matters, but it doesn’t stop him. Instead he takes advantage of your silence and starts trying to tug down your dress. You feel the shoulder strap tear and snap, feel his knees force yours apart, a rough hand pushing up your skirt even as the other gropes at your chest. Then he tries to kiss you again, almost desperately—as if even he knows he’s taken it too far. But he can’t back out now.

“No,” you rasp again, horrified to find that you’re crying. You’ve never felt this weak. This helpless. _Fuck_ men and their superier physical strength—it isn’t _fair._

You let out a strangled scream of rage, one hand going for the wand in your pocket, the other hand curling into a claw to strike at Alex’s face. He hisses, rearing back, then comes at you again. Your hand is fumbling at your wand, trying to tug it out of layers of fabric. His hand is almost up your skirt—you can feel it, burning and awful...

Then Alex is seized by the back of the neck and dragged forcibly off of you.

You sit up, holding your ruined dress against your chest, to see your savior—a tall figure all in black, his face pale with fury, framed by dark hair.

He holds Alex by the back of the neck. You’ve never seen Severus’ face like this—the rage there, burning and terrible, his eyes completely black. Alex is struggling, cursing in French, spitting and fighting. Completely unexpectedly, Severus draws his wand and jams it against Alex’s stomach. He looks murderous. Ready to kill.

“Severus!” You hear his name fly from your lips before you can help it. Before he does something stupid.

Severus’ eyes snap up to lock onto you between messy curtains of his hair, and you see the instant regret there. His wand withdraws itself with seemingly Herculean effort, and he throws the boy away from him.

Alex trips over himself, sprawling onto the floor as Severus approaches you rapidly, going to his knees beside you. He takes your face between both of his large, pale hands and examines you, concern and fear written in every line between his brows.

“Tell me you’re alright,” he demands.

“I’m alright,” you agree. Beside you, Alex is scrambling to his feet, staggering upright, pushing the hair away from his face.

“You!” he says, getting his first clear look at Severus, who quickly lowers his hands from your face. 

But it’s too late. Understanding passes across Alex’s features before either of you can stop it, and he barks a harsh laugh. Then he brings a hand to his undoubtedly bruised ribs, stumbles a bit and spits to the side.

 _“Connard,”_ he barks at Severus, and his eyes transfer to you. _“Him? He_ is why?”

“No,” you get out feebly, wanting to tell him _I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last man alive,_ but Alex isn’t listening anymore. He is digging into his coat, withdrawing his wand. Severus stiffens beside you—his wand is already in hand, and he grips it tighter.

“Put it away,” he tells the boy. But Alex just sneers and lashes out. A wordless spell flies at Severus, who parries it easily and rises to his feet. “You don’t want to do this,” he tries again.

Grunting, Alex sends another spell his way. Then another. Then another. All are countered without effort, Severus hardly moving his wand arm.

“You can barely cast nonverbally, boy,” Severus snarls. “Do you honestly think—”

“ _Confringo!”_ Alex screams, and you flinch violently as Severus parries it.

“Jesus Christ!” you cry at Alex. “You could’ve killed him!”

 _“Confringo!”_ Alex screams again, senseless with rage. It is blocked. Severus always directs them away from you, but you are worried—how long will it be before he fucks up and you’re hit with a curse?

“Pathetic,” Severus sneers. Alex’s face reddens even more, and he takes rapid steps toward the Potions Master.

 _“Reducto!”_ he yells. Another deadly one, easily parried, but still he advances, rage building with every failure. _“Reducto! Expulso!”_ He growls as they fly harmlessly to the side. Then Alex heaves a deep breath and screams, _“CRUCIO!”_

You can’t help the cry that escapes as Severus narrowly avoids the final, powerful curse by literally jumping out of the way. What the _fuck?_ Alex is using _Unforgivables_ now?

 _“Expelliarmus,”_ Severus says mildly, sending the boy’s wand flying into his hand. Another spell, nonverbal, and ropes spring up around him, binding Alex so tightly he tips over and falls to the ground.

 _“What is_ _going on here?”_

You and Severus turn to find McGonagall, Dumbledore and Madame Maxime hurrying up the path. You clutch your ripped bodice tighter against your chest as Severus casts a quick glance at you. You vaguely feel tears running down your cheeks—you can’t seem to stop crying. His look softens, but then he looks away and steps toward the other teachers.

“Headmaster,” he begins, “this boy—”

“Alexandre!” Maxime shrieks, jerking toward her prone and struggling student. Dumbledore, however, lays a mild hand on her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

“Severus?” he asks.

“This _boy,”_ Severus says again, nearly shaking with rage as the last few minutes flood back. “Your _student,”_ he barks at Maxime so harshly she flinches, “was on top of her, attempting to...” He chokes the words back, like he can’t even get them out. You’ve _never_ seen him like this—you’ve seen his passion, seen him less-than-collected. But never like this. He’s...uncontrolled. 

But Dumbledore seems to understand. His cool blue eyes sweep over you, something probing in them—something you’re not sure you like. Then his gaze returns to Alex, and his look grows utterly grim. He nods.

“Merlin’s beard,” McGonagall gasps, clutching her cravat. She looks to you. “Is this true, Miss [Last name]?”

Your breath hitches, and you simply drop your head, hugging yourself. “Professor Snape saved me,” is all you get out.

“I will not believe zis!” Maxime insists, staring in horror at Alex. “I ‘ave known Alexandre since ‘e was a boy. ‘E would never...Ze girl could—could be _exaggerating_ or—”

_Oh cool, give us some more of that victim-blaming bullshit, you twat._

“Does _this,”_ Severus barks, dragging you off the ground by your wrist, forcing you to expose your ruined dress, “look like an _exaggeration_ to you?” It doesn’t show too much skin—only the one shoulder is torn—but it makes quite the impact. 

Severus glances down at your sharp gasp, and his face falls into a look of deep regret. He quickly releases you. 

“He has been after [First name] since he arrived here,” he snarls.

He shouldn’t have used your first name. You see the instant self-admonition in his eyes. But the others don’t seem to notice.

“Oh, my dear,” McGonagall coos, coming forward, reaching out to you with both arms. “Oh, my dear girl.” She slips out of her cloak, draping it over your cold shoulders. “Come with me. Let’s get you warmed up.”

You cast another glance at Severus, then go along without complaint. You wouldn’t say you’re _traumatized_ by the assault—though who knows what emotions will spring up later—but you really want a bit of quiet and a cup of warm tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Feelings? Concerns? I love to hear them. And I love you.


	25. The Yule Ball - Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my babies.
> 
> One of the conversations below is from book...seven? I think? You'll probably recognize it.
> 
> Anyway, your comments continue to delight me. Thank you so much. You are all precious angels.

* * *

_ Now shut your dirty mouth.  
If I could burn this town,  
I wouldn't hesitate  
To smile while you suffocate and die.  
And that would be just fine,  
And what a lovely time  
That it would surely be.  
So bite your tongue  
And choke yourself to sleep. _

"Choke" - I Don't Know How But They Found Me

* * *

Snape watches you and Minerva disappear down the rose-lined paths, adrenaline still humming through him. Then he turns back to the bound boy, wishing Maxime and Dumbledore were not here.

_ Just ten minutes, _ he thinks.  _ Just ten minutes alone with this piece of slime. Hell, three. _

“Severus,” Dumbledore calls his attention again, and Snape turns to face the elder wizard. “What happened, precisely? If you please.”

Snape gives them a brief rundown, trying his best to retain his composure and not mention you by your first name again. The assault, tugging the boy away—he omits his wand jammed against the boy’s ribs, nearly hexing him, though surely the boy will tattle later—then the boy throwing curses. Including the  _ Cruciatus.  _

Arseneau has been rightfully silent this entire time, but he finally speaks up when Snape finishes.

“Headmistress,” he addresses Maxime, still lying on his side on the ground, “please, you must understand, they are—”

“If I were you, Mr. Arseneau,” Dumbledore says calmly, “I would not utter another syllable.”

The boy shuts up after that, and Dumbledore turns his piercing gaze on Maxime.

“You will deal with your student, Olympe?” he says. 

Maxime’s eyes are cold as she looks at Arseneau.  “Oh,  _ oui,” _ she says grimly. “I will deal with ‘im. ‘Arshly.”

“Send him back to France,” Snape spits, handing her the boy’s wand.

“Yes,” Maxime agrees, pocketing it. “And zat will be the ze least of it,  _ je t’assure.” _

Flicking her wand, Maxime floats Arseneau into the air and heads with him in the direction of the stables. Snape finally remembers to put away his own wand when the boy is out of sight, and he rubs his temples. Dumbledore watches him carefully, looking grim. Snape doesn’t like it. The man can see far—he surely sees how affected Snape is by your distress. Which does not bode well.

“Are you satisfied with this, Severus?” he asks, a gentler tone than his eyes betray.

“As satisfied as I believe I am going to be,” Snape replies coldly, refusing to meet the old man’s eyes. 

Dumbledore nods, folding his hands behind his back and pacing a few steps away. His eyes are finally on something other than Snape, taking in the rose garden.

“Such a lovely night,” he remarks, nodding at the flurries of snow drifting down upon green and red. “A pity it was marred by such violence.”

“I assume a student heard the boy shrieking and came for you,” Snape says. 

Dumbledore nods mildly.  “Luckily, I do not think the entire rose garden was disturbed,” he says. “We passed quite a few happy couples on the way here.”

Snape sneers. He considers this conversation over. Dumbledore is never surprised by his abrupt exits, so he simply nods at the headmaster and begins down the path.

“Severus,” Dumbledore calls after him. Snape halts in his tracks, turning his head slightly. He doesn’t like the way his name sounded. And he likes what he hears next even less. 

“You seem to care quite a lot for this girl.”

Snape’s entire body stiffens. He can’t look at Dumbledore. Gods, it’s only been a month since the affair has taken off. Is it really that obvious?

“I care for all my students,” he replies through clenched teeth. In his periphery, Dumbledore nods thoughtfully, and Snape figures he can see straight through that lie. So he sighs and turns to face the old wizard, trying to look as honest as he can. “Though I suppose [Last name] is...something of a pet.”

Dumbledore examines him for a long moment, one which seems to stretch into infinity. Snape feels like he should start sweating bullets. On the off-chance the old man is stooping low enough to use Legilimency, Snape Occludes his mind so thoroughly he’s sure it’s being wiped clean.

Finally, Dumbledore allows himself a small smile. He steps up to Snape and places a gentle hand on his black-clad shoulder.

“Just be careful,” he says. “Of course, I am not an expert, but I am told young women can sometimes form crushes.” And he taps the side of his nose twice, then sweeps past Snape into the winter garden.

Snape stands for a long moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to recollect his breath.  _ What the bloody hell does that mean? _

He ends up lingering a long time in the garden, weighing his options. Much as he wants to make sure you’re alright, Dumbledore’s words echo through his skull. And his tone—amused, somewhat disapproving. The subtext is clear— _ Girls may form crushes, but you should not encourage them. No matter how pretty she is. _

So Snape decides to stay at the Yule Ball, within sight of the headmaster, for the rest of the night. Keeping up pretenses is most important now. Keeping up pretenses is the only thing that will allow him to keep you  _ and _ his job.

He watches the glittering crowd of dancing students, distracted and impatient. You don’t return, of course, which he doesn’t think is a good sign as far as your mental state. But Minerva does, after only half an hour. Snape doesn’t approach her for another half hour after that, and then only very casually, seating himself at her table and commenting on being ready for bed.

Minerva fans herself, nodding. “It is getting late, isn’t it?” she says, then smiles. “Well, let’s make the best of it, I suppose.” And she hands him a goblet of wine. Snape studies her, dark eyes glittering. He rarely sees Minerva drunk, but she’s getting there.

“How is [Last name]?” he asks, low and serious. Minerva shakes her head, shrugs and gives him a concerned look.

“She didn’t say much,” she replies. “I gave her a bit of tea and offered to talk, but she just said she was fine. She just wanted to go to bed.” Minerva sighs. “I don’t blame her. She scarcely knows me, and this is a...delicate situation.”

“Yes,” Snape replies darkly, sipping his wine. He suddenly feels like strangling something.

“It would be better if the poor girl had someone to talk to,” Minerva continues. “It’s an awful thing to go through...” She looks over at Snape, eyebrows raised. “You’re rather close to her, aren’t you, Severus?”

“I doubt,” Snape replies coldly, “she would want to discuss it with  _ me _ .”

“Yes, but just ask her,” Minerva says firmly. “Tell her she can always come to me, if she wishes. Or Pomona—I know she likes the girl.”

Snape closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly, as if he is tired of this conversation.

“I will...relay your message,” he assures her, and Minerva smiles and clasps his arm before excusing herself.

Snape sits with his wine and his stormy thoughts, eyebrows furrowed, for a long time. The Hall is full of happiness, color and motion. Dancing. Shrieks of laughter and sighs of love. He’s not taking in any of it. Not that this is uncommon for him. He’s spent many parties like this, especially as a teenager, though not always because of a girl. One of his childhood Slytherin friends, Helena, used to call it “brooding.”

He doubts anyone would disagree.

The rest of the faculty is wrapped up in the cheery mood, drinking and making fools of themselves along with their students. Dancing and laughing and whispering and flirting. He honestly doesn’t understand how they can stand it. There are too many bodies here, too much noise. He has nothing pleasant to say, so he contrives to keep his mouth shut.

Snape wanders, lost in thought, occasionally refilling his wineglass for the next hour. And then it is finally,  _ finally _ midnight and time for the party to disperse. He watches the students being corralled back toward their dorms and feels a whisper of anticipation. You are a self-proclaimed night owl—so the night might still be young.

His eyes sweep back into the Hall and happen to fall upon Dumbledore, who is clapping Karkaroff on the back as he wishes him happy Christmas. And suddenly their conversation in the rose garden rushes back to him, and Snape curses gently. 

He’s such a  _ moron.  _ Yet again, you’ve proven too much of a distraction, and he’s forgotten to share something actually  _ important  _ with the headmaster. Is Snape really so led by his bloody  _ dick? _

Dumbledore turns his way, and Snape meets his eye meaningfully. After his nod, he waits in the Entrance Hall while people trickle out, and soon Dumbledore approaches him. A few stragglers pass by on their way to bed.

“You wanted to speak with me, Severus?” Dumbledore says, noting Snape’s grave look, his face darkening in turn. They stand side by side, barely looking at each other. Snape nods curtly. 

“There has been an...update. Where the Mark is concerned.”

“Well?” Dumbledore murmurs.

“Karkaroff’s Mark is becoming darker too,” Snape replies. “He is panicking, he fears retribution; you know how much help he gave the Ministry after the Dark Lord fell.” Snape glances sidelong at Dumbledore’s profile. “Karkaroff intends to flee if the Mark burns.”

“Does he?” Dumbledore says softly as Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies come giggling in from the grounds. “And are you tempted to join him?”

“No,” Snape replies, his black eyes on Delacour’s and Davies’ retreating figures. “I am not such a coward.”

“No,” agrees Dumbledore. “You are a braver man by far than Igor Karkaroff.” He smiles softly. “You know, I sometimes think we sort too soon.”

And he walks away, leaving Snape stricken.

* * *

You find Severus’ door unlocked when you head there, pretty much directly from McGonagall’s office. But he’s not inside—still at the ball, presumably.

So you make yourself at home, locking the door behind you. First thing is to get out of this fucking dress, and you’re not going all the way to the dormitories to do it. His bedroom door is locked, but there’s a wardrobe in the corner of the office where he hangs up his cloaks. Maybe he hangs shirts in there too.

Sure enough, when you open the doors you find a couple dress shirts hanging among all the back robes. You take one off the hook and quickly step out of your gown, letting it pool to the ground carelessly. You doubt you’ll ever wear it again.

You shrug on the shirt—a white, long sleeved button up that he’ll wear sometimes under his black jackets. It goes down to your thighs, the perfect length for pajamas, and you have it buttoned low enough that one arm droops off your shoulder. 

And it smells like him. You sniff the collar, smiling to yourself, and pace over to the armchair by his desk, picking the bobby pins from your hair and letting the curls dangle loose around your shoulders.

The novel he’s been reading is placed on the table beside it, so you pick it up. Careful not to disturb the bookmark in it, you flip to the beginning and start to read.

It takes a while before you really start to relax. But his office is so cozy, and his shirt wraps you in his smell, and after a while you feel the tension ease a bit from your shoulders. Sighing, you shift and fold your legs beneath you, curling into a more comfortable position in the chair. And you start to get a little lost in the book.

A key suddenly rattles in the lock and your heart leaps. The door opens slowly, and Severus slumps through. His dark head is bowed, his body sluggish. He’s tired. Exhausted.

_ I mean, same. _

“Sev,” you call gently, so you don’t startle him. 

His head jerks up immediately, eyes widening, expression fierce. You’re startled by the look on his face. Maybe he considers this an invasion of privacy?

“Sorry,” you say. “I can go...”

“No,” he says, and there’s something raw in his voice, something breaking. He rushes at you, reaching down and pulling you upwards into his arms so quickly you gasp.

“Oh,” you say, kneeling upright on the chair. He wraps his arms around you, tightening his grip, squeezing you. You laugh a little at the intensity. “Are you okay?”

“Are  _ you?”  _ Severus demands, rearing back and holding you by the arms. He examines you—wearing his dress shirt, hair loose around your shoulders, makeup cried off. More of a mess than he’s used to. But that doesn’t seem to bother him—he tilts your head side to side, brushing some hair away from your neck.

“Yeah, I’m—” You pull back, stopping his hands gently. “Sev, what—?”

“Did he hurt you? Leave marks? I couldn’t see, I was too far, but I saw his hands at your neck and—”

“Whoa,” you say, holding his hands to calm him and starting to smile. His intensity, his concern for you—it’s heartwarming. He rarely acts like this. “I’m okay, Sev. Scout’s honor.”

Severus kisses you then, not just with heat but with  _ affection, _ showing you something he rarely shows. His large hands wrap around your hips, bunching up the loose fabric of his shirt, so warm, so dominant. It gives you pause for a moment—admittedly still a little on edge after Alex—but you soon can’t help but melt into him. Melt completely, like a candle under blue flame. Let yourself revel in him and feel his comfort. It’s such a relief, a lifted burden. Some clamp on your heart, which tightened into place the moment you sat down with Alexandre Arseneau, is now being released.

You feel tears spring to your eyes as Severus’ soft mouth sweeps over yours. And for a moment—just a moment—you let yourself love him.

He pulls away from you, his large hands going to your face and wiping away the tears you weren’t aware were falling. A look of pain crosses his dark features, which morphs into something closer to anger.

“I’ll kill him,” he whispers, wiping away more of your tears. You sniff, pulling away from him, a little unsettled by how gentle he’s being. You like it—love it—you’re just not used to it.

“I meant it, when I said you saved me,” you reply, not meeting his eye. A brief moment of confusion steals over him, then is brushed away.

“I don’t need your gratitude, [First name],” he says, shaking his head. “When I pulled my wand on that boy...if you hadn’t stopped me...” He looks away, stormy. “I would have preferred you never saw me like that.”

“I don’t know,” you reply, smiling a bit as your tears dry. “It was kinda sexy.” Severus sends you a wry smile, rolling his eyes. “All masculine,” you continue, fanning yourself. 

Severus jerks you off the chair and quiets you with a firm kiss as he sets you on your feet. Then he turns you both around, deposits himself in the chair instead, and pulls you gently onto him.

You curl up sideways on his lap, head against his shoulder, feeling utterly safe for the first time tonight. Severus’ hand toys idly with a few strands of your hair, the other gently stroking the outside of your bare thigh. 

You sit in comfortable silence together for a long time, just enjoying each others warmth. His long fingers move up slowly to toy with the hem of the shirt you wear, and he seems to notice it for the first time, cocking his head.

“Are you wearing my clothes?” he says, voice soft, a little amused. You smile and settle closer to him.

“I had to get out of that dress,” you reply. Severus smiles gently, shakes his head. You feel him consider all the retorts he could throw back— _ And you didn’t think to find your own clothes? And you think my office the appropriate place to do so?  _ etc.—but in the end he decides to keep his mouth closed. Which is nice of him.

Another long moment passes before you remember.

“Oh,” you say softly, shifting a little to extricate yourself. Severus’ arms tighten around you briefly before he relinquishes you. You climb off his lap, over to the remains of your black dress, crumpled on the floor. You dig around in the pockets for a moment before coming back up with a small wrapped parcel. You show it to him, eyes shining.

“Your present.”

Severus regards you seriously for a long moment before finally quirking an eyebrow.

“What is it?” he asks. You roll your eyes, striding forward to hand it to him.

“A fucking puppy,” you say as he takes it, and he laughs under his breath.

“You didn’t have to,” he replies softly, turning it over in his hands.

“I wanted to,” you reply. 

You’re about to add something like  _ and don’t worry if you didn’t get me anything,  _ when Severus pushes out of his chair and heads to his desk, rummaging inside. He comes back with a parcel wrapped in emerald green paper, rather large. You’re surprised at the weight of it when he nestles it into your arms.

“It’s heavy,” you say, giving him a questioning look and sinking down in the armchair. Severus shrugs, leaning back against his desk, and gestures at you with his own present.

“Open it,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a bit short, but I'll get the next one up very soon!


	26. Christmas Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS.
> 
> I've been dying to show you guys this. The absolutely AMAZING LadyoftheWesternLands gifted me the beautiful illustration below (artwork by Marcissisttv). I'm so honored. Seriously, I don't deserve readers like you, Lady. Thank you so much.
> 
> Here's the link if you want to see it on Deviantart: https://www.deviantart.com/ladysesshy3945/art/The-start-of-something-beautiful-861655332
> 
> While we're on that topic... You guys, I have been writing and posting fanfiction for over ten years. I have multiple stories on other sites under other usernames, and one fic that I wrote when I was a teenager is actually pretty popular, considered something of a "classic" in its fandom (lmao). (Also don't worry about what the fic is, it's embarrassing and terrible.)
> 
> I'm not saying this to brag. I'm saying this because over the past decade, with all the dozens of stories I've put online (fanfic and non-fanfic), I have NEVER had a reader response as incredible, enjoyable and fulfilling as the one on this story. I don't know how I got this lucky, or what the fuck is happening, but you babies are AMAZING. I am having so much fun, and I am so grateful. Some of you (lookin' at you LadyoftheWesternLands) have actually made me cry.
> 
> So THANK YOU. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> Agh, sorry this note is so long. I just had to say that.
> 
> As a token of my deep appreciation toward all of you, here is a chapter absolutely chock full of fluff (seriously, you'll get a tooth ache) with a little smut at the end there.
> 
> I love you all, babies.

* * *

_I'll hold you when things go wrong.  
I'll be with you from dusk till dawn.  
I'll be with you from dusk till dawn.  
Baby, I'm right here._

"Dusk Till Dawn" - Zayn Malik (Feat. Sia)

* * *

Smiling, you pull the paper off the gift to reveal two large books, stacked on top of each other. The top one is a novel he’d mentioned a few weeks ago, which he thinks you’ll like. But the other book is large, black and strangely heavy.

 _“Abscondita?”_ you read the title. There’s no author. 

You glance up at Severus, who is watching silently, mildly amused. Frowning, you open the book...only to find a blank page. You riffle through. All of the pages are blank. 

“A diary?” you ask.

Smirking, Severus shakes his head. ”No,” he replies. “It has a secret.” And he gestures that you should keep exploring it.

You flip the book over and hear a strange rattle from inside. Secret indeed...but how to reveal it? There are no clues on the back cover, nor are there any hidden buttons or catches. There is something strangely familiar about the large black book, but you’re not sure what.

“There’s a trick,” you say to yourself, biting your cheek.

You wave your wand over it, but that does nothing. You go through quite a few spells, any you can think of, including a simple _Alohomora._ Nothing appears on the blank pages. 

After a while, when you start getting a little frustrated, Severus smiles and finally sweeps over to you, dropping down on his knees beside you.

 _“Abscondita_ means ‘secret things’,” he says softly. He takes your hand in his and extends your pointer finger to run it up and down the spine of the book. “You must stroke the spine. Three times.” 

On the third stroke, there is a _click_ and the black cover of the book seems to unlatch. Eager, you lift it open to find the blank pages are gone. Instead, the book is completely hollowed out to create a little compartment. A few objects roll around inside.

“A secret chest!” you say, looking up to Severus with delight.

He nods, smiling, and tilts his head at you. “It will open only to you,” he says. “Not even I can get in anymore.”

“I can hide my drugs in here!” you say, laughing when he snorts and rolls his eyes.

You lower your fingers into the _Abscondita_ box, toying with the objects he put there. Two small vials, a black button, a gray stone, a folded piece of parchment and an iron key.

You unfold the parchment first to find his spidery handwriting. A little note.

_From the moment we met, I had no choice. You have bewitched me._

_Happy Christmas._

_S._

Warmth swells inside of you, and you beam up at Severus, wanting to cry. He looks away at your gaze, rising and walking back to his desk to lean against it. Embarrassed, no doubt, by his own sweetness. Not wanting to push the issue, you fold the note gently and place it back in the box. 

You pick up one of the vials. It’s about half-filled with a bright green, viscous liquid, and your heart starts hammering. You think you know what this is.

Sure enough, you tilt your head and examine the label. _Basilisk Venom._

“No _fucking_ way,” you say, staring up at Severus. He shrugs, smiling. You examine the other vial—quite a few strands of glittering white hair are curled inside. “And _unicorn hair?_ Where did you even _get this?”_

“I have my ways,” he replies mysteriously, clearly pleased with himself. And he should be. Not only are these ingredients expensive, they’re rare. As in, if you need them, you’d have to order them at least a few months in advance at the apothecary.

You place the secret book box on the sofa beside you and jump up to hug him. “This is incredible, Sev!”

He chuckles under you before waving you off. “There’s more,” he says, gesturing to the box.

Nodding, you sit down on the sofa and pick up the next object—a smooth gray stone. You look at him inquiringly.

“From our walk along the river,” he says, shrugging. He comes over again, sits beside you and takes the stone, turning it over in your palm. “Look.” On the other side is a cluster of little white crystals. Quartz.

“Oh!” you say, delighted. Not only is it a keepsake from a beautiful memory the two of you share, it also has a beautiful secret to it. Poignant and sweet. You wonder when he found it. He didn’t say anything at the time—meaning he’s been planning this present for at least a couple weeks.

“And this,” Severus says, reaching into the box and withdrawing the black button. “I believe it’s yours. I found it on the floor of my classroom the first time we...were intimate there.”

You laugh loudly, leaning against him, feeling him chuckle in response. Then you pick the key out of the box—the last item. “And this?” you ask. “Does this have a special memory attached too?”

“Ah,” Severus says, shaking his head. “No. No, that...is merely a key to my office.”

You turn your head slowly to look at him. “Are you serious?”

“No, [First name], this is all an elaborate joke,” he replies sarcastically. You nudge him, giggling. “I asked the Weasleys to help with it.”

“Okay, okay,” you say. You look at the key again for a long moment. Then you launch yourself onto Severus.

He grunts as you knock him backwards to lay on the couch, crawling on top of him. But his hands nestle your hips between them, and he looks rather pleased with himself.

“Thank you,” you say, kissing him enthusiastically. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

His smile grows slowly into a low chuckle at your ministrations, and when you feel the amused rumble in his chest, you pull back a little, brushing the dark hair away from his eyes.

“Seriously,” you say. “This is the best present I’ve ever gotten.”

A small crease appears between Severus’ eyebrows. “Had I known the bar was so low,” he drawls, “I would’ve expended less effort.” 

You roll your eyes, going to pull away, but he swiftly catches you by the back of the neck, leading your lips to his again. He kisses you, long and sensuous, before releasing you.

“Really,” he says softly, “I’m glad you like it.”

“I do,” you whisper back. 

Then you’re scrambling off him, eager to give him your gift. You grab it from where he left it on his desk and hand it to him as he’s sitting up.

“It’s not as good as yours,” you say. “But...it’s from the heart.”

Severus smirks, looking down at the small parcel for a second, grazing his fingertips over it almost reverently. Then, slowly and precisely, he unwraps the paper without tearing it. You roll your eyes at him, leaning against his desk.

He opens up the little box inside and pulls out first the pair of cufflinks—small silver serpents with emerald eyes. He examines them, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Do you like them?” you ask nervously, biting your cheek. His black eyes meet yours, and he nods seriously.

“Very much,” he replies. 

You beam. “You can wear them during class,” you say. “And like...remember me and stuff.”

“As if I could forget,” he says to himself, reaching back into the box for the next part of his present. This cost you a pretty penny, and it’s the reason this is not a huge gift. 

Severus lifts out a small, leather bound book, obviously very old, with delicate silver lettering on the cover. When he reads the title, his eyes widen, and you sigh, relieved. It’s good.

“[First name],” he breathes, looking up at you, eyebrows furrowed. He shakes his head. “Did you steal this?”

“What?” you ask. “No!”

“Then...” Severus riffles through the pages, an intense look on his face. He looks back up to you. “This is legitimate?”

“My dad works at the Ministry,” you reply, smirking. “Office of Rare Artifacts. He’s got a few contacts.”

Now it’s his turn to stand. He paces over to you, the book in one hand, and takes you firmly in his arms.

“This is remarkable,” he says, leaning down to kiss you deeply. You laugh, kissing back. 

The book is very old, written in the Middle Ages by a mad witch named Artisia Blacke who was obsessed with the Dark Arts. It’s called _The Blacke Grimoire._ As far as you can tell, it’s mainly a treatise on both curses and defensive magic. Most of the ideas and spells therein can be commonly found in other textbooks. But that’s not the point.

The point is, Severus is a major book nerd, and this thing is rare as hell.

“There’s a little note inside,” you say, leaning back from him. He gives you a stern look and you laugh. “No, I didn’t write _in_ the actual book. I don’t want you to murder me.”

Severus smiles and opens the front cover to take the little piece of parchment there.

_S,_

_No matter what I’m doing, any time of the day, I’d always prefer to be with you. I know it’s stressful sometimes. But for me, it’s worth it._

_I’m deeply grateful that you gave us a chance._

_You are incredible. And it’s incredible that you are mine._

_Merry Christmas._

_[First name]_

“Thank you, [First name],” he says, smiling as he replaces the note between the cover and the front page. He pulls you over to him by the hand and presses a kiss gently to your lips. “I believe you know this,” he murmurs against your mouth. “But I haven’t said it before, and I suppose I should.” He kisses you again, then rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “It’s worth it for me, too.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, delighted, and kiss him deeply. He returns the embrace generously, his large hands grazing along your hips and back, while you go up on your tiptoes to press closer to him. You want his strength and warmth, and he lets you revel in it for a long time. He doesn’t try to turn the kiss rough or initiate something sexier. He seems to know what you need, and he gives it to you.

After a while, Severus pulls back, looking a bit conflicted, a deep crease between his eyebrows. He brings his forehead against yours again and exhales deeply, something thoughtful happening at the corners of his mouth. His hands come up to your face, half-covered in black sleeves, fingers slowly petting your cheeks.

Finally, he seems to decide something and speaks in that low, languorous baritone of his: “I have...something else for you. If you’ll have it.”

“What?” you ask, eyes flicking over his face, reaching up to push a few strands of dark hair out of his eyes. You can already feel yourself smiling.

Severus shrugs, steps away and starts to cross the room, taking your hand to pull you along. He leads you to the corner, to the tapestry that conceals his bedroom door, and your smile widens. Is he really offering what you think he is?

He pushes aside the curtain, and you can’t believe how serious his face is. He won’t look at you. You wonder how painful this is for him. How uncomfortable this is, to let you into his private sanctum. You don’t want him to feel obligated, simply because you asked for it in the past (quite forcefully).

“You don’t have to,” you say gently, catching his hand before it goes to the handle. Severus’ black eyes dart to you, and he stares for a long moment, expression intense.

“I want to,” he says softly. And he opens the door to his bedroom.

The first thing you notice is that it smells like him. Old leather books, myrrh, musk and cedar chips, spent candles, a hint of sweat. You step inside, breathing deeply, looking around. The floor and walls are the same stone as his classroom and office, but a large green rug takes up most of the floor. An armoire stands in the corner, a trunk at the end of the bed, two black leather armchairs beside a stone fireplace, and bookshelves filled to bursting on every wall. The aesthetic in here is very similar to his office—lit candles on every surface, strange jars and knick knacks, reading material.

Then there’s his bed. Queen sized, a green canopy, gray sheets and piles of black blankets. It’s half-made, and you can see where he curls up at night. It’s all surprisingly cozy. You suppose you expected something a little more Spartan, but you like this.

Severus lingers by the door, watching as you pace around the room, not speaking. You trail your hands along his knick knacks—boxes and vials of herbs, smoky crystals, the skull of a kneazle—before turning back to him with a soft smile.

His face is very serious as he leans against the door frame, but as you approach him he straightens and closes the door behind him. He takes your arms when you reach out to him, but instead of pulling you close, he guides you gently backwards, deeper into the room.

Your legs hit the bed after a few steps, and you sit down on it, reaching back to test the velvety softness of his blankets. You sigh, smiling at him, running your hands over his comforter. He watches, but you can’t read his expression—it's almost grim.

Slowly, you slide onto your back, laying on his mattress, letting your hair splay around you. You luxuriate in it—you know he has excellent taste, but god these sheets are soft.

“Mm,” you moan, closing your eyes. You feel Severus step closer, and his hands go slowly to your thighs, and his knees knock against yours. You spread your legs for him to step between as his palms slide luxuriously up and down your sides.

“I’ve pictured this,” he says, almost a whisper. “What you’d look like...” You open your eyes to watch him shake his head, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. “Exceeding expectations, as usual, Miss [Last name].”

You scoot up the bed and reach out for him, grabbing the front of his jacket and dragging him toward you. He lets you, moving slow, smirking down at you. When his knees hit the mattress, he dubiously kneels onto the bed before pausing, a flash of hesitation.

Still, you tug at his jacket and he leans down over you with a sigh, bracing his forearms on either side of your head.

“You’ve had a long night,” he says, eyes flicking down to your mouth, not letting his body cover yours firmly. There's a hint of concern between his brows, and you shift up, bringing your faces closer. He examines you seriously, breath warm against your lips. “You needn’t feel obligated...simply because I showed you my bed...”

You laugh, warmed by his concern and shake your head. “I want to christen it,” you say, and he chuckles gently, bending to kiss your jaw. “Let’s just...go slow.” Severus doesn’t usually go slow, you reflect, so this will be quite the change of pace if he agrees.

But of course, he nods and leans down to kiss you. And maybe it’s the gifts or the ball or just the wine, but it’s one of those magical kisses you read about. Slow, exploratory, deep...even loving. It’s less about the sex—you really _feel_ each other. Breath each other in. Bond.

Severus’ warm body finally covers yours, one hand cupping your cheek, the other running underneath your back, making you arch against him. You grip his shoulders, pulling him closer as your bodies slowly rock and writhe together, tangling your hand in his hair. 

Sev’s lips never leave yours as his hand slides down to start popping apart the buttons of your shirt. Only once he has it undone to your belly button does his mouth slip down, whispering along your jaw, his tongue trailing along your throat. You gasp as he pushes the shirt aside, and his lips reach your breasts, leaving wet kisses across the soft, sensitive flesh. He gently closes his mouth around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue until you’re squirming under him.

You reach up, trying to undo the buttons of his coat—he always, without exception, keeps his clothes on during sex. Since the first time, you haven't seen him fully naked. 

Severus rears back when you start unbuttoning, and his hands gently remove your clumsy fingers before going to work at it himself. He shrugs out of his heavy jacket and tosses it to the side so you can run your hands along his silk-covered arms and shoulders. But the promise of his heated skin beneath is too tempting, and you quickly try to start undoing his dress shirt too.

Severus chuckles at you, whispering “Shh, shh...” and once more removes your hands as if you are a petulant child. You almost decide to be annoyed by it, but then his mouth is on yours again, and you forget anything but that.

The tender, patient caresses continue for a long time. He’s being so gentle, you would almost say he’s treating you like a wounded bird. But he’s not. There’s no pity there. Just heat and affection and desire. He wants to do this, and you’re not complaining. 

His hands and tongue are everywhere, exploring every inch of your body, a thorough, almost meticulous investigation. First your neck, your breasts, nipples teased with fingers and tongue. Then to your stomach, and the shirt is pulled off your shoulders and tossed aside, and he moves down your body, kissing and sucking a lazy, heated trail. He swirls his tongue at the soft flesh of your inner thighs, kisses your knees, nips along you calves.

Then his clever fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, and he slides his tongue slowly back up your legs. And you moan and stroke his hair, telling him that’s good, you love that, telling him how much you want him. Because yes, it feels amazing. But you also realize something.

He’s worshipping you. Silently venerating every inch, making sure to experience it all. And he’s willing to go slow, if that’s what it takes. He’s willing to take his time. Because he doesn’t want to miss anything.

And as Severus’ warm mouth brushes against your core and his tongue flicks against you and his nose bumps the smooth plane of your abdomen, you close your eyes in bliss.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, black gaze darkened even further by lust, and his mouth begins a steady pace. Deep and slow and utterly _good._ The fingers of one hand stroke your quivering skin while he reaches up with the other to knead your breast. Warmth pools in your belly as he reaches under to sling one of your thighs over his shoulder, releasing a deep groan of contentment as he repositions himself on the bed.

His mouth never stops moving. You feel the pleasure begin to mount after a surprisingly short time, and you're writhing beneath his mouth without consciously realizing it, meeting his tongue in long, languorous pulses.

He watches you the whole time, gaze never leaving your face. You look down at him, feeling closer to him than you ever have, and it only makes the fire burn hotter. His tongue, his mouth...he kisses into you and watches your eyes as you tighten around his fingers. With a small smirk, knowing exactly what he's doing, Severus brings you over the edge, and you cry out, shaking, throwing your head back and shutting your eyes.

He stops when you go still, sprawled out on his bed, and he straightens up on his knees to watch you recover. You meet his eye, and he raises an eyebrow at your little giggle. He seems to be waiting for you to make the next move. And you’re not just going to get yours, then deny him his.

So you reach up and grab the shirt he wears, pulling him down over you. It annoys you again, that he has clothes on and you’re naked, but that’s when he brings his hand down and undoes his belt. He rears back again and actually fully removes his slacks, revealing a pair of black cotton boxer briefs filled to bursting with his straining erection. He still doesn’t take off his shirt, but you shrug. It’s more progress than ever, and you’ll take it. 

You smile at his pale thighs, the smattering of black hair down his legs. Seeing the Potions Master’s bare legs feels so intimate (which is probably the exact reason he’s kept them covered until now).

Though he’s making this very sweet and romantic, Severus can’t help but roll his eyes at your dreamy expression and the way your hand comes out to swirl soft patterns along his thigh. He leans down over you again, covering your body with his, his hard bulge nestling perfectly between your legs.

You shift and rub against him while he kisses you again. His breathing is a little heavier than it was previously—this slow, intimate experience has built up his anticipation—and soon he reaches down to uncover himself and press harder against you.

You close your eyes, gasping, as he begins to push inside. But Severus pauses suddenly to reach up and grip your chin. Your eyes snap open to see his face directly over you, intense and unwavering, staring. And your gazes meet, and that seems to be what he wants. And he shoves into you fully.

You begin to move together, sinuous and passionate, his hard angles pressing as close as they can to your soft curves. The eye contact doesn’t fade, he doesn’t stop watching your face, but it doesn’t make you want to hide. No, instead it’s sexy and quite beautiful and you want to keep staring—and that surprises you. You were worried it would be awkward, but Severus is just so... _Severus._ You trust him. You know him. And though you generally “fuck” more often than you “make love”...maybe this is a turning point.

He’s being honest with you in this moment, baring himself in the only way he knows how as his hips rock against yours. He kisses you, and together (with no words spoken) you both speed up, and you wrap your legs around his waist, hook your feet behind his back, and Severus drives deeper into you. And every thrust is smooth, like the rolling tide, and every time he bottoms out inside of you, goosebumps race up your spine. The way he fills you, completes you...

“Sev,” you whisper as he leans down to kiss you, and you move together, faces pressed close.

A crease appears between his brows as he stares into your eyes, and his mouth opens, and you moan aloud at his look of pleasure. His breath comes faster, harsher, and his hand curls into your hair, seemingly of its own accord, and he grips it, just the slightest hint of his usual dominance. You cry out, and it spurs him on, getting faster and faster.

You throw back your head and close your eyes, moaning at the feel of him, at the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, ready to snap if he just keeps doing what he’s doing. Maybe five more thrusts and he’ll get you there. Four. Three. Two...

“Look at me,” Severus whispers, voice rough and breathless with exertion, and though it is a command, his tone is tender. 

Your eyes fly open. Severus lets out a deep, guttural moan and buries himself into you, shuddering with pleasure. His eyes never leave yours.

You moan too, feeling your own release at more or less the same moment as his. Waves upon waves upon waves. You both tremble and clench, and you watch each other the whole time.

You collapse back against his blankets, and Severus sags against you, warm and damp with sweat. His body is all firm muscle and bone under that black shirt, and you trace the outline of his shoulder blades, completely satisfied.

After a long moment, Severus inhales and rolls over, scooting up the bed to lay his head on the pillows. You wonder if he’s about to kick you out so he can go to sleep. For a second you lay completely still, as if he’s a t-rex and will forget you if you don’t move.

“Are you going to sleep down there?” he asks after a bit, amusement and scorn in equal measure. He’s sitting up, back against the bed frame, and a book is already in his hand. You beam and scootch up next to him, draping your warm naked body against his (mostly clothed) frame. He drapes an arm over your shoulder, cradling you to him, and opens his book.

You shift to get some covers around you, but otherwise simply lean your head against his ribs. He’s already absorbed in the book, but you’re too tired to try to read along. So you just close your eyes and listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling warm and impossibly content. And soon, that rhythm lulls you to sleep.


	27. Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi babies! Sorry this took so long to post. Holidays, you know how it is. The next chap will be out in a few days.
> 
> The lovely Echo Patriquin made a Spotify playlist with all the songs I have listed! Thanks cutie <3
> 
> Here's the link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2eHXtKHs5PUh89p7EAdbAB?si=fLpoy2wNTfShmEZdRfuTBQ
> 
> This chapter's song is goofy af, but this chapter is pretty lighthearted and I couldn't help myself. Ghost is my favorite band and very few of their lyrics work for this story, so I took what I could get haha.
> 
> I love you all! Thank you for the comments -- I love them.

* * *

_You’ve been playing  
_ _Around with magick that is black,  
_ _But all the powerful magical mysteries  
_ _Never gave a single thing back.  
_ _You’ve been daddied  
_ _By all the dudes that wanna dad,  
_ _But all of the dads never gave you the things  
_ _That you should have had._

"Kiss the Go-Goat" - Ghost

* * *

Snape slowly opens his eyes to gray morning light filtering in through the high dungeon windows. His body is remarkably sluggish and comfortable, and his bed feels strange somehow. A good strange. Warmer than usual.

He shifts a little and notices a weight across his chest, then finally looks down. And memories of last night flood back.

You’re burrowed in his blankets as if his bed is your personal nest, your arm across his chest. Your hair is everywhere, and your face is rosy and peaceful in sleep. He takes a moment to watch you—your gentle expression, the flush of your cheeks, the way your mouth falls open slightly. You look so very sweet and vulnerable in that moment, it’s hard to remind himself how vicious you can be.

Snape slowly lifts your arm off his chest, and you give a sleepy, disconcerted moan before rolling over. He can’t believe he was able to drift off with you clinging to him—he is not used to bedmates. But he managed. In fact, it seemed to help. Or maybe it was the long night, the wine and the sex. But sleep does not always come easily to Severus Snape, and last night it did.

He sits up and stretches, fully intending to sling his legs over the mattress and get out of bed. But the blankets are so warm, and the rest of the air so frigid, he lingers for a moment. And that’s all it takes for you to sigh and roll back over, apparently awake now, draping your arm across his lap like a languid cat. 

“Stay,” you order sluggishly into the pillow.

Chuckling, Snape shifts back down beside you. “Hello,” he says, his voice still low and throaty with sleep. 

“What time is it?” you ask, cracking an eye and wrinkling your nose. Your hair is a complete mess, haloed around you in an inexplicably charming way, and your voice is husky and warm. Gods, it’s an attractive image.

“I’ve no idea,” he replies lazily. “Early.”

You don’t look pleased by that. Instead, you groan and roll over yet again, grabbing his arm as you go to force him to cradle you to his chest. Snape smiles, eyes gliding along your naked back before pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder. His fingers stroke down your spine, feeling every curve and line, making you twitch and hum pleasantly. Good lord, he’d forgotten what it’s like to wake up with a woman in his bed. He’d forgotten how disgustingly pleasant it can be.

Showing you his room hadn’t gone as badly as he’d imagined. He swallowed his discomfort, and you made it easy for him to relax. But even now, Snape keeps waiting for those uncomfortable spikes of anxiety, the mental twitches that tell him all is not safe. That _this_ is not safe, that _you_ are not safe. That you will try to use this against him, to damage him or manipulate him. There is a quiet but utterly malignant piece of his psyche which refuses to take you for what you are, which distrusts you as deeply as he would distrust a stranger.

But this morning, at least, that cynical voice in his head stays quiet. He manages to stay relaxed, and in a surprisingly good mood. He figures, at the very least, all the sex and companionship lately has significantly boosted his usually under-par levels of serotonin.

Snape allows himself to revel in it for a few minutes—the comfort, the gray light, your soft warm body—but not long. Perhaps someday you will be able to stay in bed together until noon, or simply never leave it. Perhaps someday you’ll be able to afford that. But today is not that day.

He swings his legs out of bed and strides to his wardrobe to shrug on a long black dressing gown, bracing against the cold. The fireplace is not lit—he long ago barred house elves from his personal chambers, as they would often disrupt him late at night.

“You should go,” he says, and you turn to glare up at him between layers of blankets. He laughs. “It’s not _my_ preference. But you should return to your dormitory before your roommates notice.”

“Ugh,” you say, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

“Or don’t,” Snape says, lifting a brow. “Open yourself to the awkward questions. _Beg_ them to ask you where you slept last night.”

“Okay, okay,” you grumble. You’ve told him more than once that you are not a morning person, and he’s seeing that now in the flesh. You’re lucky, he thinks, that he finds it oddly endearing.

You finally sit up groggily, the blankets falling away from your bare and perfect breasts, and he can’t help but smirk. You push a hand through the wild thatch that is your hair, clearly looking around for your clothes. Clearly remembering, as he does, that you didn’t bring any besides your ballgown.

“Oh, shit,” you say, slumping back against the headboard. “No clothes.” You think for a moment, tracing a finger along the pillow beside you. “Maybe I _should_ just stay here. Forever.” You grin at him. “Think we could get away with it? You could bring me food.”

“And what would I tell them about your disappearance?” Snape asks.

“You could claim ignorance,” you reply. “Just say I disappeared into thin air on the night of the Yule Ball. Never seen again.” 

“Excellent cover story,” Snape replies dryly. “They wouldn’t suspect a thing.”

You consider for a second. “You could be all tortured about it,” you continue. “‘She was my favorite student,’ you’d say. ‘The brightest witch in the school. Better at potions than I am’.”

“They would never believe such a blatant lie,” Snape replies. 

You laugh and throw a pillow at him as he turns back to the wardrobe, a hand at his chin. He withdraws his plainest black robe—it could almost pass as a school robe, except that it has no house colors. He tosses it to you, along with one of his black night shirts.

“That should get you from here to the common room,” he says. It’s just down the hall, after all, and a glance at the clock finally tells him it is before seven AM. You smile, putting his shirt to your face, he suspects to sniff it. And even as a gush of warmth spills over him, Snape rolls his eyes at your ridiculousness.

You merely stick out your tongue at him and slip out of bed to shrug the shirt on. He admires your naked back, the round curve of your ass, for a moment before it is covered. His shirt is long enough that it goes to the tops of your thighs, but the way you look in it, the way it drapes off your gorgeous body, makes him want to drag you back into bed. There’s something unbearably lovely about you, all rumpled and sleepy. 

The honesty of it, he thinks. The intimacy. He’s not used to it. And it bothers him a little, how much he likes it. You’re becoming very good at making him feel vulnerable, even unwittingly.

Snape turns away from you to stop those thoughts, pretending to be preoccupied with something on his dresser while you slip on his robe. It’s far too long for you, but it looks more normal than a night shirt or a ballgown.

Speaking of which, you seem to have the same thought at the same time. You turn to him curiously. “What are you going to do with my dress?”

Snape shakes his head. He hasn’t really thought about it. “I’m sure we can have it delivered to your dormitory,” he replies.

“Or just burn it,” you reply, a little venomously. 

Snape cocks a head, surprised at your tone. “I didn’t realize how much you hated ballgowns. Remind me never to so much as mention them in the future.”

Your lip twitches, but only for a second before you shrug. “I was assaulted in it,” you remind him, mouth tightening. 

Ah. Of course. Stupid of him.

“Incineration it is,” Snape says. He watches you, how dark your expression just got, and a surge of fury rushes through him at the thought of Alexandre Arseneau. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do it yourself?”

“No,” you say, and you manage a weak smile at him. “I just don’t want to deal with it.”

Snape nods. It’s a sentiment he understands entirely. 

He comes forward to take you in his arms then, because you look so pensive and unhappy, and he’s pleased to see your little smile as soon as his arms wrap around you. He presses his lips against the top of your head, burying his nose in the tangled mess of your hair, taking in your scent. Vanilla and raspberries.

“Consider it done,” he whispers.

* * *

You make it back to your dorm shortly after. The walk down the hall is rapid and harried, sure every second that someone will appear and catch you coming from the Potions Master’s office. But no one does—it is early, and the school is quiet.

You open the passage to the common room and are relieved to find that, too, is empty. Quickly, you steal upstairs, into your dim dormitory. Everyone’s curtains are drawn around their beds. One of the Gray twins is snoring softly.

Your bed, however, does not have its curtains drawn, which makes you a little anxious. Because of course it doesn’t. You weren’t there last night to draw them.

Quickly and quietly, you wind the curtains around the bed and open your trunk to hide your gifts—the _Abscondita_ box and the novel he got you. You shrug off Severus’ robe and toss that inside too. Then, wearing only his nightshirt, you pad to the bathroom.

You spend a few minutes in there, brushing your hair and teeth, preparing to go back to bed for another few hours. When you exit, however, you’re dismayed to see Harper is awake. She’s sitting up in bed, her curtains open, slowly braiding her hair into a smooth black plait.

“Oh,” she says softly, so as not to wake the others. “It’s you.” There’s something unpleasant about her expression as she examines you, eyes traveling up and down your form. You suddenly feel very self conscious, though all of you are used to seeing each other in your pajamas. 

“It’s me,” you reply, falsely cheerful. You go to climb back into bed. 

But Harper is still examining you. And slowly, an evil smile spreads across her full lips.

“So,” she says, clearly searching for a wicked secret, “where did _you_ sleep last night?”

A cold wave rushes you from scalp to sole, like being doused in ice water. But you manage to keep your reaction minimal—you only pause for a second as you each for your pillows to plump them. Then you turn to Harper with a look on your face like _what the fuck are you talking about?_

“Uh,” you say, as if she is the dullest thing on the planet. “Here? Why, where were _you?”_

“Here,” she replies assuredly, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “All night. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You were probably asleep,” you reply, finally sliding into bed.

“Well, you must have been out late,” she replies haughtily. “Because it was...oh, two or three before we went to sleep.” She smirks. “We had a few boys here. Figured out the trick staircase.”

_Fuck. Shit. Fuck shit fuck shit._

“Wow, good for you,” you reply dryly, not sure what trick staircase she’s talking about and not caring. She takes it upon herself to explain anyway.

“The staircase to the girls’ dorms turns into a slide if boys try to come up,” she says. “Of course, _you_ wouldn’t know.” She smirks cruelly—you’re sure she’s noticed your apparent lack of romantic partner, and she loves it. “But Hadeon Reed found a really clever sticking charm for their shoes. Fixed that little problem.”

“Ingenious,” you reply flatly, sorely tempted to shut the curtain in her face.

“So,” she says again, leaning toward you, smirking. “Where _were_ you?”

“Uh...a party,” you lie. “Post-ball ball. You know. Got back...shortly after you fell asleep, I guess.”

“Really,” Harper says, clearly doubtful. 

“Really,” you reply. You wait a beat before, “Well...night!” Then you pointedly pull your curtains closed.

Harper doesn’t try to talk to you again. But you really didn’t like the look on her face—as if she knew she caught you in a lie.

You don’t drag your ass out of bed until noon, as there is nothing to force you. And you’re really quite tired from last night. Though sleeping in Severus’ bed was everything you hoped it would be, the events before it were exhausting.

At lunch, you meet Colin and Benji in the Great Hall. Neither of them noticed you were missing after the ball—both were much too distracted with their girls. But they _have_ heard about Alex, it seems.

“That absolute fucking cunt!” Benji spits, surprisingly passionate. He was the one who always liked Alex most—so maybe he’s feeling betrayed as well. “I’m so bloody sorry, [Last name]. We should’ve known.”

“Shouldn’t’ve let you out of our sight,” Colin agrees. 

You smile at your boys, melting a little at their concern. “How could you have known?” you say. “I didn’t.” You consider a second. “Well, I knew there was something off. But I had no idea it’d go so bad.”

“We heard _Snape_ was the one who found you,” Colin says. “How’d that go down?”

“Alex tried to curse him,” you say, flinching as last night rushes back. 

Benji whistles lowly. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.” You lean toward them, lowering your voice. “Used the _Cruciatus.”_ Both boys’ eyes widen, and you shake your head. “Snape is kind of a badass dueler. He deflected everything without even, like, moving.”

“Well, he would be,” Colin says, shrugging. You frown. “I mean, you hear things. He’s interested in the Dark Arts. Wants that Defence post, but Dumbledore won’t let him.” 

“I think he’d be good at it,” Benji adds.

You chew this over as the boys move on, chattering and eating. Severus hasn’t said anything to you about the Dark Arts, though you suppose it’s not really something one casually mentions. Would it be worth it to ask him? Or does his interest go more toward the defense thereof than actual curses and hexes?

You suppose you can’t really blame him if he did some studying in his youth. He grew up in a time when the Dark Arts were less taboo than they are today, though of course the Dark Lord ruined that for everyone. But you can understand the appeal. Benji had called the Dark Arts “the last bit of magical knowledge,” and there’s something alluring about that. 

But at the end of the day, you know Severus. He has a good heart, underneath it all, and you’re sure he would never want to hurt people. Not without good reason, anyway.

That evening, you slip away from your friends and head to Severus’ office, fuming. Victoire, Remy and Hutton were at dinner, and though no one mentioned Alex, they were all a little cold toward you. As if his actions were your fault, or you exaggerated the assault. Of course, you have no idea what he might have told them before being shipped back to France—or what Maxime told them. She certainly seemed to want to keep this quiet and retain Beauxbatons’ reputation. She could have easily painted you as an over-sensitive little tattle-tale. 

You have to admit, you want comfort right now. You manage a smile when you reach Severus’ door and pull the chain around your neck from under your shirt. At the end dangles the tarnished silver key to his office, and this will be your first time using it.

You take a moment to look around and make sure you are alone. Then, smirking, relishing the moment, you slide the key into the lock and turn it with a satisfying click. You push the heavy door open and peek into his office, ready to beam at him and thank him again for the key.

But he’s not inside. His office is cold and dark.

You frown, disappointed. He’s usually here at this time of day. Where...

You spin around, closing his door and locking it again before jogging back upstairs. There’s only one other place in the castle where you can generally be sure to find Severus.

And indeed, when you get to the top of the southern tower and push open the door, there he is. He’s lounging in one of the armchairs inside the circular room, a book open, one finger tapping his temple as he reads. He looks up as soon as you enter, a slight smile raising one corner of his lips.

“You got my note,” he says. 

Raising your eyebrows, you shake your head. “Lucky guess.”

He nods, looking back down to his book. “I had it sent to your dormitory,” he says. “Just asking you to meet me here.”

“You wanted something?” you ask, lowering yourself in the chair beside him.

Severus shakes his head, eyes not leaving his book, and reaches over to grasp your hand and raise it to his lips. “Your company,” he replies. Then he lapses into silence, reading. You smile, open the novel you brought—the one he gave you for Christmas—and do the same.

The sky grows dark and the moon rises, a huge, ripe thing that seems to float no more than a few inches from the balcony. White light reflects off the perfectly crisp snow blanketing Hogwarts’ rooftops and gables, gleams against the ice at the edges of the Black Lake. The scene from up here is breathtakingly beautiful, and you stop reading when the silver light hits your eyes, inhaling deeply and looking up to stare. After a few moments, you glance over at Sev, who is watching you, smirking.

“It’s called the moon,” he says archly, looking back down to his book. “I believe it rises every night.”

“Alright, jaded guy, don’t appreciate the beauty of nature with me,” you shoot back, rising from your chair and tossing your pillow at him. Though you can’t help but laugh a little. You stride out onto the balcony to lean against the railing. And after a few moments, as you guessed he would, Severus joins you.

He comes up behind you and winds a solid arm around your waist, the other hand brushing your hair aside so his lips can find your neck. You lean back into his warmth, tugging his cloak around your own arms to guard against the chilly air.

“The Beaxbatoners hate me now,” you say softly after a few moments, wanting to share this concern with him. 

He scoffs gently against you, his nose pressing against your hair. “Did you do something to them?”

You shrug. “Got their friend sent back to France, I guess.”

Severus scoffs again, tugging you closer. “If I remember correctly,” he says, a hard edge to his voice, “Arseneau got _himself_ sent back to France.”

“You know how people are,” you reply, hearing the sadness in your tone. Severus stiffens, pulling back from you to look at your profile, distaste around his lips.

“Don’t tell me this upsets you,” he says derisively. At the noncommittal shake of your head, he reaches beneath your chin to turn your face toward him, meeting your eyes. “There’s no point in letting imbeciles _upset_ you, [First name]. It sounds exhausting—the world, after all, is brimming with them.”

You smile, feeling oddly comforted by this. The fact that he thinks most people are idiots, but clearly excludes you...well, he has a way of making you feel special without actually complimenting you.

“I keep worrying, though,” you say, turning back to the snow-crested wonderland below. “What if Alex says something? He saw us—”

“Arseneau saw me touch your face and check you for wounds,” Severus says dismissively, seeming so sure you can’t help but feel relieved. “I doubt anything will come from it. Put it from your mind.”

“Okay,” you whisper, turning your head again to kiss him over your shoulder. How does he do that? How does he make warmth spread throughout you, make you feel this safe?

You spend a long time up in his thinking spot that night. Mostly reading, but there’s quite a bit of kissing and touching too. Only once the clock chimes midnight does Severus insist you return to your dorm. 

So you do, sliding quietly into bed in the darkened chamber, where your roommates are asleep. You look for the note he mentioned sending earlier, asking you to come up to the tower. But you don’t find it. You shrug, not giving it much thought after a cursory glance around your bed. Soon, you stop thinking of it altogether.

The rest of the holiday is absolutely lovely. You leave behind the darker memories of the Yule Ball and lean into Severus for company, which he seems to like, or at least accept. The week is full of cozy, snowy days spent locked in his office or his thinking spot, reading and talking and making love (he’s back to being mostly bossy and dominant, but you’re _really_ not complaining.) He only lets you sleep in his bed once more in that time, and kicks you out at four AM so there are no further questions from your roommates.

You both take the opportunity to read as many books as you can, and you end up making a competition out of it, to see who can read the most. You pull ahead in the first few days, but by the end of December, he wins. Which makes sense, as he doesn’t have a social life outside of you. Besides, Severus is weirdly competitive—he never simply _lets_ you win anything, which you often tease him would be the romantic thing to do. He refuses, maintaining that would be an insult to your competence.

You go on walks around the snowy grounds with your friends, instigating snowball fights and screaming with laughter. Victoire endures your company for Benji’s sake, though she is not as friendly as she used to be, and Remy and Hutton don’t hang at all anymore. But you decide you couldn’t give less of a shit. Severus is right—they’re imbeciles, and you’re better off without. As long as you have him, you’re good.

And as long as you have Colin and Benji, of course, and the Weasley twins. You enjoy your time with them too, and you’re pleased to find it’s not the least bit awkward between you and George. He’s eased back a little on the flirting, which is a relief. And you learn he asked Mala, his date to the ball, to be his girlfriend. Which makes you happy, but also fills you with a sort of vague, guilty jealousy that you know you have no right to.

School resumes at the dawn of January, which depresses you a bit. Christmas break at Hogwarts was one of the best holiday seasons you’ve ever had. You slump to class the first day, and as if to spite you, Severus seems to be in a good mood. He hands out points for correct answers, and doesn’t even sneer at Maggie Thripp when she fucks up her potion.

You meet his eye as class ends, and he raises an eyebrow at you and nods toward the door. Meaning he’s busy, and you should not linger after class. You’ve gotten quite good at reading his nonverbal communication.

So you head out of the classroom with Benji and Colin. You mention Severus’ good mood, pretending to wonder if the holiday was as relaxing for him as it was for you. 

And that’s when Colin brings up another possibility for why he’s cheerful, and he gives you a very interesting piece of information. Very, _very_ interesting.

* * *

“So your birthday’s in a week.”

It’s a few days later, and you’re leaning back against the desk in his office, watching him organize ingredients on the opposite wall. Snape’s shoulders stiffen briefly, surprise and annoyance flaring in his chest. He does not particularly enjoy his birthday as a matter of principle, and he knows you are a lover of any kind of celebration. He does not want you to make a big production out of it—it feels vulnerable and embarrassing.

He looks at you over his shoulder, disapproving. “How did you find out?”

You smirk. “I have my ways.” He rolls his eyes, going back to his ingredients, and you shrug. “Colin let it slip. Said he’d tried to give you a gift a few years ago and you literally threw it back at him.”

 _Of course._ “Malkovich...” Snape mutters darkly, rolling his head on his shoulders in a distinctly annoyed way. “I wouldn’t say I _threw_ it. But no, I don’t typically accept gifts from students.”

“Okay...” you say, slowly approaching him. He pauses when you wrap your warm arms around him from behind, burying your face into his black cloak. How very sweet. How very manipulative. And then, your voice muffled: “But I’m not a typical student, right?”

He shakes his head, working to keep from laughing at you, charmed despite himself, and his hands slide along yours at his stomach, locking them into place.

“Don’t waste your time buying me _presents,_ [First name],” he says. 

“Why not?” you demand, squeezing him. “My birthday’s in February, and I expect roses.”

“Of course you do,” he replies dryly, then detaches himself from you and turns around. 

You place a hand on your hip, cocking a determined eyebrow. Snape watches you for a moment. He knows that look—and he knows a lost cause when he sees it. So he finally sighs.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks, his tone making clear he isn’t going to enjoy it, no matter what it is.

“That’s where you come in,” you reply. When he raises an intrigued eyebrow, you continue, “I know you’re not into surprises. So you come up with a gift, and I’ll give it.” Snape immediately opens his mouth, seeing the obvious way out, and you stop him with a raised finger. “ _On the condition_ that you pick _something.”_ You grin when he rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t matter how small. Just...make it something you want.”

“Fine,” Severus says after a few moments, his mouth tightening.

* * *

The next day in Potions class, work starts for real. The first day of term is always the easiest, and Severus wastes no time in resuming the vigorous curriculum on the second. Today he has you brewing a really tricky focus potion, kind of like a magical Adderall, which he insists you will _not_ be able to test.

You’re bent over your work station, grinding aconite with your mortar and pestle, when Severus sweeps up beside you to watch you work.

“Finer than that, [Last name],” he says silkily, nodding at the ground herb. You side-eye him. _No shit, Sherlock._ “You are making a potion, not a stew.”

You blink a couple times, nodding as you redouble your efforts. It’s pretty clear you’re not done grinding. Good job stating the obvious, Sev.

But then you feel pressure in the pocket of your robe for half a second, and you glance down to see him withdraw his hand. Did he put something inside?

He leaves your station without another word, and you immediately feel in your pocket. There is, indeed, a folded up piece of parchment there. Suddenly, you can’t wait for class to be over.

You rush through the rest of the potion and end up turning in a barely-acceptable final product. Severus gives you a look of deep disapproval, but you ignore it and race out of the classroom to find sanctuary in your dorm.

Once there, you pull the drapes on your bed and sit inside the relatively safe cocoon. Then you pull out Severus’ note and read:

_At your insistence, I have decided on a gift._

_For the next five days, until my birthday, we will not interact outside of class. I will not attend Club, and you will leave Felix maintenance to me. No after-hours visits. Nothing that is not strictly professional and heavily limited._

_You will also not touch yourself between now and then. No pleasure, not even with your wand. You will find no release until I do it for you._

_On January 9th, you will attend classes, as usual. After classes, you will attend the Felix maintenance, Advanced Potions Club and dinner. You will deliver yourself to my office promptly afterwards._

_Most importantly: For that entire day, from morning to night, you will not wear_ _any_ _undergarments (besides your stockings) beneath your school uniform._

_Remember, you asked for this._

_S._

_PS For gods’ sake, burn this damn note._

You feel a shudder of excitement from your toes to your skull. God, you’re already wet just _thinking_ about it.

Instead of burning the note, as per his instruction, you fold it up and hide it in the black _Abscondita_ box. Then you lie back against your pillows. This next week will be sweet torture.


	28. Happy Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is smutty as HELL. And by that I mean, whatever semblance of plot this story has is completely put on hold, besides one little convo with George. 
> 
> And it’s long. Like, obnoxiously long. Long and smutty. 
> 
> Honestly, you could probably just skip the chapter if you’re not into it. But uh...I hope you’re into it.
> 
> That’s all. Love you, babies!

* * *

_The world is a curse, it'll kill if you let it.  
I know they got pills that can help you forget it.  
They bottle it, call it medicine,  
But I don't need drugs  
'Cause I'm already high enough.  
You got me, you got me good,  
I'm already high enough.  
I only, I only, I only got eyes for you _

“High Enough” - K.Flay

* * *

Well, _sweet torture_ maybe isn’t the phrase. That evening, you make the mistake of thinking Severus isn't serious about the distancing part of it. You swing by the Potions office, planning on doing Felix maintenance, only to find him leaving.

Severus shuts the door quickly behind him, towering over you, his look dark.

“What do you think you’re doing, [Last name]?” he demands. You glance down the empty hallway, then give him a look like _what do you think, you weirdo?_

“Uh, Felix Felicis?” you reply. His look darkens, and you quickly add, “Sir.”

 _Maybe he_ is _serious about this professional thing._

Severus nods. “I think I was fairly clear,” he says, “that you will not be doing that this week.”

He leaves abruptly, black robes billowing behind him. You turn after him, smirking slightly.

_If that’s how he wants it..._

So for the next four days, you treat Severus Snape the same way you treat Sprout or Vector. Except with even _less_ friendly chatting after class. You’re fairly cool to him, and he returns the favor generously.

You have to admit, the game is fun to play. You often feel like bursting into laughter in the middle of class, or when you catch his dark eyes wandering over you with what you think is desire. But the not-pleasuring yourself part is difficult. More than once, you’re very tempted to find release at night. But you don’t. _See, Sev? I can restrain myself._

The fourth day, you’re getting a few ingredients from the walk-in pantry, and Severus happens to be doing the same. He doesn’t even meet your eye while you’re in there, but on your way out, you brush against him. Your ass against his hips. You pause, just for an instant, and press backwards a little more firmly. Then you walk away. You can’t be positive, but you think you hear him let out a quiet, frustrated sigh.

But it’s more than just sexual tension. You miss him badly. It feels like losing a lover _and_ a best friend—and it makes you check yourself. _Best friend_ and _Severus Snape_ feel like antonyms. But god, you enjoy hanging out with the sarcastic bastard.

You didn’t expect that. This little game is just supposed to make you both crazy with desire—and for you, at least, it is. But it also makes you _yearn_ a little. It makes you feel a little like you’re falling...

 _Stop. Stop that shit_ right now.

And finally the morning arrives. January 9th. Severus Snape’s birthday.

You get up as eagerly as if it’s _your_ birthday. You put on your white uniform shirt without a bra, then throw on your school skirt without any panties beneath. You’re surprised at how vulnerable you feel. You almost put on a sweater over the white cotton—the shirt is pretty thick and opaque, but it’s cold outside and the probability of nipping out hovers at around 1,000%.

But isn’t that the point? A bit of exhibitionism, a bit of humiliation? And most of all, whenever Severus looks at you, he’ll know you’re just a thin cotton layer away.

Honestly, the lack of panties is the worst part. You _woke up_ aroused, for Christ’s sake. Every breeze of cold air reminds you of that fact. Timidly leaving the dorm, you’re on the constant lookout for someone who looks like they might suspect. Though why would they?

God this is simultaneously extremely hot and extremely horrible. You have a feeling this is not going to be a comfortable day.

It’s not. Breakfast ticks by, and every time you have to move, you’re hyper-aware of your skirt. Benji and Colin don’t seem to notice, but when you move into the Entrance Hall, the Weasley twins approach you with their customary “Morning, [First name]!”

And George’s eyes drop to your chest, flick back up to your face, then move down to your chest again. _Oh god._ His eyes widen a fraction and a slow smirk crawls across his face. You make a quick escape, and when you glance back at the twins, George is nudging his brother, gesturing after you. And Fred laughs.

You head to the bathroom before Herbology to check in the mirror. Your cheeks are flushed—you look strangely glossy and stimulated, your pupils huge. Chalk it up to pure horniness. And it’s not obscene, but your nipples are _definitely_ making little peaks in the fabric of your shirt. 

_No wonder George was so interested in the view._

You think longingly of your sweater downstairs, but you just pull your cloak firmly around yourself.

Then you think of Severus seeing you like this, and you wish you could lock yourself in a stall for ten minutes, just to get rid of this ache between your thighs. Though again, his instructions are clear. That’s the point of all this.

You make your way to the greenhouses. Luckily, Sprout’s lesson and your cloak against the frigid air makes you forget your lack of underwear. You complete your lesson and head back up to the castle.

George catches up with you halfway across the snow covered grounds, having just come from Grubbly-Plank’s Care of Magical Creatures class (Professor Hagrid is apparently taking some kind of sabbatical, but no one seems to know the details.)

“Wotcher, [First name]?” George says, a grin playing around his full lips. “Something up?” His tone drips insinuation.

You try to look like that’s an extremely weird question, and why would he ask you that.

“Uh...no?” you reply. “Something up with you?”

George shrugs, looking you up and down.

“You sure?” he asks

You feel a slug of dread. Does he know? Jesus, how could he? 

But does he?

Then his hand slides across your upper back. He often puts his arm around you, but this makes you both stiffen. Because he can clearly feel your lack of bra straps, and you’re sure he notices.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” you say anyway, like he’s the hugest freak on the planet. You pull away from him, ultra-casual. “Why? Do I have a wedgie or something?” You check the back of your skirt to make sure it isn’t riding up.

George is suddenly very casual as well, jamming his hands in his pockets.

“No,” he says lightly. “Just seem distracted, is all.” There’s a pause, then he grins and leans forward to quickly kiss your cheek. “You look pretty.”

He moves off quickly up the lawn. You stop in your tracks, touching your cheek. You know George likes you, but he’s dating Mala now. Is he really going to start making moves again?

 _Great,_ you think grimly, starting to walk again. _Just another thing to fucking deal with._

You resolve to be nothing but friendly to him. Unless and until he pushes the issue, you won’t have to hurt him.

Thus empowered, you make your way back to the castle.

Alchemy drags by after lunch—Severus does not eat in the Great Hall this afternoon—with no other noteworthy occurrences. Just you checking every few seconds to make sure you’re not flashing anyone.

Watching the clock, your knee starts to bounce as anticipation mounts. You know it still won’t be until at least after Advanced Potions Club and dinner that you’ll be allowed to even touch him, relieve some of this fucking tension, but at least soon his eyes will be on you. And that is its own kind of pleasure.

Then it’s _finally_ time for Potions. You start to race for the dungeons before containing yourself and falling back with Colin and Benji. You are a strong, independent woman. You’re not too eager. Nope. You can take or leave him, no problem. Totally.

You enter the Potions classroom just before the final bell. Severus is standing near his desk, shuffling through papers. As soon as you step in the door, his dark eyes flick up to you. You simply send him a bit of a cold look, giving nothing away, and he studies you for a moment before returning to his work.

Is this as bad for him as it is for you? These last five days have been hard, but the last few _hours_ have been torture. And your bare ass under your school skirt doesn’t let you forget for a single second.

Severus begins a lecture on some fucking potion, and is it just you, or do his eyes land on you more often than usual? Do they flick down to your breasts, the peaks of your uncovered nipples pressing against your shirt?

Casually, you lean forward in your chair and spread your legs under the desk. Just slightly. Just enough that he may be able to glimpse the shadow between them, but nothing else.

As he speaks, Severus’ eyes travel slowly down your body. And when they get to the level of your knees, he actually falters in the middle of his sentence!

His black eyes flick away from you immediately, and he regains his train of thought with grace. It’s barely noticeable. But it gets you smirking. His expression has hardened significantly. A flush rises to your cheeks and you close your legs. He does not look at you again.

The class begins to brew, and you work quietly and studiously for the next hour. Severus is at his desk, perusing his papers, apparently determined to ignore you. His look is dark and a little stormy—furrowed brows, lips pressed tight. You watch one long, graceful finger tap the surface of his desk restless. _Impatient, Professor?_

When your potion needs fifteen minutes to simmer, you head into the walk-in ingredients closet, needing to stock up on powdered moonstone. You have your back to the door, searching the shelves, when you feel and hear someone enter behind you. His presence takes up much of the space, corralling you toward the back wall.

A little affronted at the invasive presence, you turn—and your heart leaps. Severus stands directly behind you, staring down with a grim expression. You pivot to face him fully and glance past him, out the door. He’s blocking you from view, not that it matters—the closet is at the back of the room, and everyone is facing away.

“Professor,” you breathe, your entire body tingling. Severus raises an eyebrow, then reaches over your head and removes a jar from the shelf behind you. He gives you another few seconds to sweat before he speaks, his voice deep and silky, so quiet you can barely understand.

“Unbutton your blouse.”

Your breath goes shaky, your knees weak. You stare up into his eyes, between curtains of his hair, and you lick your lips. “W-what?”

A flash of annoyance crosses Severus’ face. “Unbutton. Your blouse,” he repeats through gritted teeth.

Hands shaking, more turned on than you can remember being, you quickly reach under your Slytherin tie and undo the buttons of your shirt. You glance around Severus again—no one is approaching. But Jesus this is risky.

When you reach your navel, Severus stops you by holding up a hand. “Open it,” he whispers.

Slowly, breathing heavily, you part the fabric on your chest and show your bare and braless breasts to your Potions Master, green tie hanging down between. His eyes flick to them, though his face gives nothing away—firm, incisive, even studious.

Unhurried, casual, Severus places the ingredient in his hand on the shelf to his left. Then he slowly reaches up with both large hands to gently cup your warm, pliant breasts, thumbs sweeping over your nipples.

You whimper, almost gasp, but he sends you a harsh look and removes his hands. You watch him, wishing he would give away more of his desire—does he even like this?—but he doesn’t. Instead, with your shirt still gaping wide, Severus lowers his hand to the hem of your skirt.

He quickly flicks it up, and this time you _do_ gasp at the sudden rush of cool air against your heated core. 

Severus reacts too—a sharp inhale of breath, hissing over his teeth. His eyes lock onto the view between your legs, then they close for a brief moment as if saying a silent prayer.

You bite your lip, flushed and pleased, as Severus meets your eyes again. “Good girl,” he breathes.

Then he drops your skirt back into place, turns on his heel and sweeps out of the closet. You make a disconcerted noise, lurching to cover yourself and button your shirt up. At the door, Severus glances back, and you stick your tongue out at him. He merely raises his eyebrows like _what, me?_ And he walks away.

Fucking. _Bastard._

You get through the rest of the lesson somehow, though you barely take it in. Severus will not look at you again, and you can’t keep your eyes off him. Your thighs keep pressing together of their own accord, desperate to relieve this built up tension. 

When the bell rings, every piece of your body is screaming to stay in the classroom and rip his clothes off, ignoring his protestations. Instead, you meet his eye defiantly and march out the door. That was a nasty trick he pulled, and you’re sure he would love an excuse to berate you. He seems to like berating you, you’ve noticed. (You kind of like it too.)

You spend a distracted hour in the library, hiding from the world—and it works, not even Benji or Colin find you, and more importantly, George doesn’t either. Then you head back down to the dungeons for Felix maintenance.

You unlock his office door yourself with the key he gave you. You always get a little rush of pleasure when you use it, and you’ve stopped knocking altogether. He never mentions it, so you assume it doesn’t bother him too much.

He’s seated behind his desk, but his dark eyes flick up to you instantly when you come in. You just raise your eyebrow, not even gracing him with a smile—you desperately want to get him back for that little scene in the potions cupboard, and the last hour has been spent pondering exactly how you will do that.

Don’t give him the reaction he wants, you decide. Yes, it might be his birthday, but you won’t let him win that easily. Besides, he secretly (or not-so-secretly) likes it when you fight back.

So you stride briskly and silently to the little lab, and you start to work studiously at the Felix.

He remains silent too. He actually leaves you alone the whole time you’re stirring the potion, knowing that any distraction would be disastrous. But as soon as you sigh and start to jot down notes, you feel his presence behind you for a moment. Your heart leaps, and you can’t help the smirk that curls the corner of your lips.

Then you’re forcibly pushed down over the table, bent at the waist. You let out a huff as you go, but his strong hand on the back on your head sends another rush of heat through your already overheated system.

“You have followed my instructions?” Severus asks in that silky baritone, holding you down on the desk and stepping up behind you. “You have not pleasured yourself for the last five days. Correct?”

“Yes, sir,” you reply breathlessly, forgetting to be a brat.

“Good,” he says. “At least you can do something right.”

You roll your eyes and growl at him, squirming, and the pressure of his hand on your head gets harder for a moment.

“Wipe that expression off your face, witch,” he demands.

You huff again but eventually comply. His fingers relax in your hair.

“Now,” he says silkily, “spread your legs.”

You do so, until your belly is resting on the desk and you feel completely open to him beneath your skirt. Still pushing your head down, the long white fingers of his opposite hand move between your thighs. Two of them touch you gently, brushing bare wet skin but not pushing inside. Severus hisses as soon as he makes contact, and almost as quickly withdraws his hand.

“So wet,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “And I haven’t even started.” He leans down to speak into your ear, voice carrying a hint of ridicule. “If I’d known how much you’d like this, Miss [Last name], I would’ve made it _your_ birthday present.”

“Sev,” you moan, your thighs twitching. You feel the very hint of his bulge brush at your backside, but no more. “Please. Now.” You wiggle your ass at him.

“No,” Severus replies, sounding flat and bored. “We have less than an hour until Club, and I plan to take much longer with you.”

“Just,” you plead, “quickly...and we still can after...”

You know instantly that you’ve fucked up. Severus backs away, seizing your arm and spinning you around to face him. He presses close, and you feel his aching hardness thrust firmly between your thighs, rubbing hard there to give himself some relief even as he pretends to be so stern.

 _“Weren’t_ you listening?” he demands. He releases your arm, throwing you a disgusted look. “You silly girl. Can’t even follow simple— _ah...”_ As he speaks, you reach down and cup him firmly through his pants, and his eyes squeeze closed as his sentence fades away into a deep, throaty moan.

You smirk to yourself. When his eyes fly open again, he looks furious and utterly turned on. He rips your hand away from him, holding it out beside you by the wrist. You grin cheekily.

“You will pay for that, girl,” he snarls. “Mark my words.”

“Looking forward to it,” you reply. Snape lets go of your hand as though it shocked him, then presses his nose against yours.

“Get. Out,” he says, very seriously. “Before my resolve snaps.”

You nod, knowing he’s right. This is like hours of foreplay. You should keep it going. Release might ruin the magic.

So you send him one last smirk and pull away from him to head toward the door. “Later, sir,” you say, overly-chipper and casual, as if he didn’t get under your skin at all. You catch sight of his derisive eye roll and you let out a snort of laughter, closing the door.

Advanced Potions Club is spent much like class, trying your best to ignore each other. Severus sweeps around behind the group as you work on improving a hangover cure invented by none other than our own Benji Zabini. As far as you could tell when he first started brewing it this past month—being the test subject on a number of occasions—all it did was make you feel slightly stoned and fall asleep. Severus is only letting your group experiment on it in Club because of a fantastic strip tease by you in his thinking spot last week, during which he finally agreed to allow it (throwing his head back in frustration). 

You smirk at Severus over the cauldron, where Benji is adding a few ingredients. Your classmates have no idea how much they owe you. And anyway, it’s a worthwhile endeavor. The club has improved significantly on the potion, and you genuinely think it will be a benefit to the wizarding world, given the magical community’s love of wine. You know there are other hangover helpers on the market, but they focus on relieving symptoms, and you often have to take multiple potions to relieve all of them. This is meant to be an all-in-one, hydrating brew. You honestly can’t think of a more appropriate project for Benji to head.

Sev catches your eye, looking pale and aloof in the flickering candlelight, and you suddenly remember your lack of underwear. You sigh at yourself, closing your eyes, then glance at the clock. Half an hour until dinner. Then you can eat like the wind and race back down. 

Knowing Severus, he’ll take his time at dinner just to spite you. But if you beat him to his office, maybe you can switch out a few of his quills with the trick ones Fred and George gave you at Christmas—they’re enchanted to write rude things about the penman if used. It’d be nice revenge for this unbearable day.

By the end of Club, you’re wiggling out of your skin. You’ve started to hate this significantly more than you enjoy it, and your sexual frustration is turning to simple, well, frustration. Still, remembering his instructions, you leave the office without even looking at him.

Dinner rushes by mercifully quickly—probably because you’re eating at the speed of light, to the point where Colin comments on it. But you just mutter something about studying, which confuses the boys even further, as it’s only the first week of class.

Severus isn’t up at the teacher’s table, which means he’s waiting for you below. So you jump up, holding the back of your skirt so you don’t flash your bare ass at the rest of the Great Hall, then practically sprint out into the corridor.

You’re almost at the dungeon stairs when someone calls out from behind. “[First name]!”

Groaning under your breath, you turn to George, who jogs across the hall to you. He doesn’t have his twin with him, and you’d usually love seeing him, but right now...Right now you’re only interested in getting the absolute life railed out of you by your Potions Master.

“Hey,” you say, startled to hear how breathy your voice is as he reaches you. You feel all heated and riled up now that the main event is so close, and you can’t imagine you’re not bright red and possibly even more horny-looking than you were this morning. “I really can’t chat, I gotta—”

“You didn’t have to lie, you know,” George says, and you look at his face, affronted, to see he’s not smiling. He hasn’t been smiling this whole time. You’re not sure how you missed that startling deviation from the usual.

“What?” you ask stupidly, completely caught off guard. You were sure, _sure,_ that he was merely coming over to flirt some more, perhaps try to kiss your cheek again. But George Weasley looks...kind of pissed off, actually.

“You don’t have any boyfriend in America,” George says, and cold dread washes over you. “I mentioned it to your mate, Zabini, in study hall this afternoon. He had no idea what I was talking about.”

Whoa. What? Seriously? And why didn’t Benji mention this little conversation? Damn him and his distraction with things other than your sex life.

“I—” you start, but George just shrugs, already brushing past you.

“You didn’t have to lie,” he reiterates. “I wish you’d just been honest. I would’ve understood. It wouldn’t even have hurt my feelings. But you know something, it’s funny—this kind of does.”

And then he’s walking off, the edges of his ears as red as his hair, clearly no longer interested in discussing this with you. Your shoulders slump as you let him go, feeling absolutely terrible. To be fair, you didn’t really lie about having a boyfriend—just about the details.

You just have to explain that to him, then tell Benji and Colin about your fictitious American boyfriend too—meaning pile some more little lies on top of the ones you’ve already told. What else can you do? Expose you and Severus? Never.

But you’ll make George forgive you, because you like him too much to lose him. Even if, perhaps, you should just let him go. You’ll never be good for him. But honestly, fuck that line of thought.

Squaring your shoulders, getting defensive, you march into the dungeons. George Weasley has another thing coming if he thinks he can just call you a liar and walk away. No wonder you were scared to hurt his feelings—the guy can apparently be ruthless. A child who understands nothing. A _boy._

You quickly unlock Severus’ office and stomp huffily inside, slamming the door behind you. He looks up from behind his desk and quickly flicks his wand, locking the door and casting _Muffliato._ The stare he gives you is blank as you flop down in the chair across from him, slumping and folding your arms and legs in tandem. It’s the first time today you’ve truly forgotten you’re not wearing underwear.

“My, my,” Severus says flatly, leaning back in his chair, clearly unimpressed by your mood. “That look does not bode well.”

“Fucking _George Weasley,”_ you spit. 

At Severus’ raised eyebrows—and slight smile—you impart the last few minutes to him. By the end of your story, his smile has grown significantly wider.

“You can stop looking like that,” you snap.

“Like what?” he asks innocently, still smiling.

“Like a cat with cream,” you reply. “I happen to _like_ George, and I want to maintain friendships. Even if I’m in a relationship with _you.”_

Severus’ look darkens—that response bothers him, you can tell. After a moment to think, he nods. “Of course,” he replies. “I would not want to _isolate_ you, [First name].”

You wave that concern away. “I’m not worried about you _manipulating_ me or something,” you say, your tone softening. “I know you’re just jealous.”

“Of George Weasley?” Severus scoffs. “Hardly.”

You smile. Because yes, he is. Or if not jealous, at least threatened. He doesn’t give you this much crap about Benji or Colin, because he knows they’re not interested in you. And frankly, he knows you’re not interested in them. You suppose he’s guessed or seen quite a bit about your feelings for George. That would bother you too, if you were him.

So you sit up, smiling, and slowly uncross your legs—it’s a _Basic Instinct_ moment, and Severus notices immediately, his eyes locking onto the shadows between your thighs.

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” you say, voice soft and seductive.

Severus smirks. “I assure you, I’m not,” he insists.

Rolling your eyes, you rise to your feet, letting your robe drop off your shoulders behind you and land in the chair. “Good,” you say. “Because George Weasley doesn’t make me feel like this.” 

You reach up and tug at your green tie, loosening the knot as you step toward him. Severus swivels his chair toward you, legs spreading in a wide stance of dominance and attraction, both white hands resting on his knees as he leans back. His eyes rake over you—hair loose, white school shirt, short skirt. Nothing but woman beneath.

“No one makes me feel like this but you,” you say.

Severus meets your eye, a tiny twitch at the corner of his lip the only thing to show his appreciation of this fact. “I assume you’re still...following instructions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come here,” he orders, raising one hand to crook a finger toward you.

You obey, coming to stand over him, and he positions you so that one of his knees is between your legs. You rest your hands on his shoulders while his palms slide up your thighs to find your hips. Then, inhaling deeply, Severus sits up while simultaneously tugging you firmly down. You gasp, forced to straddle his leg as he shoves his mouth against yours.

The sensation is startling against your bare skin, the solid musculature and heat of his covered leg so intimately braced against you. Severus pulls you close, dragging your body against his solid chest, and the pressure of his slim, unmoving thigh between yours starts to enthrall you. It is, after all, more pleasure than you’ve known in nearly a week. Then, still ravishing your mouth, his leg lifts and flexes to firmly rub you, and you let out a desperate moan. With his encouragement, and with steadily increasing enthusiasm, you start to ride his thigh.

The kiss progresses, and you're grinding against him, moaning, the black wool of his trousers intimately pushed against your naked skin. It’s unbelievable, the amount of pleasure you’re getting from it—you can’t believe how sensitive you are. And he’s not even really _doing_ anything to you; he's just sitting there, kissing you and letting you squirm on his lap. But you can’t stop, your entire body feels hot, and his mouth is warm and wet, your kiss a frenetic tangle of tongues and teeth. You begin to move with abandon, grinding against his leg, clutching at Severus’ collar, knuckles white. 

He leans back from the kiss after a long moment, during which you’re steadily working yourself up using only friction and his firm thigh. He chuckles, and your hips stutter and slow, your eyelids fluttering open. A flush burns across your face—you kind of lost yourself there for a second, and he looks very amused.

But when you stop rubbing against him and bite your lip, embarrassed, his hands go to your hips again. “Look at you,” he drawls, using the strength of his own arms to rock you back and forth against him. “Shaking and whining.” You start moving again, guided by his hands, and his voice is deep and silky and utterly amused: “I’ve barely touched you.”

You throw your arms around his neck to pull yourself on top of him, knees bracing against his chair as you move harder against him. “Please,” you pant, meaning you need him inside you, or at least his hands or his tongue or _something. “Please,_ sir...”

“Please, sir,” he repeats, trying to sound bored. “Please, sir, _what?”_

You moan in discontent and grab his hand to lead it forcibly under your skirt, but he jerks out of your grip. He brings his face very close to you, and you whimper when he stops your grinding abruptly, both hands at your waist.

“Well?” he demands, brushing your noses together, eyes locked on your mouth. You try to kiss him again, desperate, but he pulls back. “Try using your words.”

“Stop _teasing,”_ you demand finally, breathless, desperate. 

And his hand is suddenly at the nape of your neck, tugging you upright firmly. You squeal as you go, though it doesn’t really hurt. He knows by now that he can throw you around a bit, and you’ve even established a few loose “safe phrases” in case he goes too rough. But this? This is not too rough.

Severus drags you off of his lap and stands to his full height, gripping you like a disobedient puppy. “I did say, did I not,” he drawls, sounded remarkably cool and collected, “that you would be punished for your little...transgression during Felix maintenance.”

“No,” you whine, puffing out your lower lip. “No punishments. Just touch me.”

“Miss [Last name].”

“It’s been all _day,_ sir. I need this.” And though your voice sounds rather genuine, he can tell by your use of “sir” that this is not a real request. You’ve already accepted your punishment—you’re just giving him the opportunity to be the dom he is.

And of course, he complies beautifully. “Shut up,” he snaps. 

As soon as you obey and close your mouth with a smirk, he nods and grips your arm. He repositions you in front of him and drags you closer by your loosened tie, meeting your eye with a sneer before tugging it off your neck and tossing it to the ground. With quick, dextrous twitches of his fingers, he unbuttons your shirt and pushes it off your shoulders, taking a moment to appreciate the bare body underneath.

Then he pulls you fully against him. You moan as your mouths meet, open and wet, your naked torso pulled tight against the coarse black fabric of his jacket. You can feel each of the buttons pressed against your overheated skin.

“Now,” he says, hooded eyes examining you, barely pulling his mouth from yours. “Get on your knees.” 

Your heart flutters and you hesitate. Not that this is a sticking point for you—far from it. You’re just surprised. You’ve asked to do this before. Thing is, Severus has legitimately never _let_ you, preferring to service you instead. You’re happy. You want him to take his pleasure first, especially on his birthday.

Severus rolls his eyes at your shock, pushing you forcibly to your knees in nothing but your uniform skirt. One long-fingered hand buries itself in your hair while his other works mechanically at his belt. Your hands, meanwhile, trace against the fabric at his thighs, buzzing to feel his skin.

When he finally gets his belt undone, you impatiently push his hand away to finish the job, resting the side of your face against his warm inner thigh. Maybe it’s just that this is the first time you’ve done this for him, but there’s a strange intimacy about the moment. An intimacy you certainly didn’t expect, especially when his eyes flick down, meeting yours as you uncover him and take him into your mouth.

Severus’ head falls back instantly, exposing the long white column of his throat. A deep, low groan escapes him while his hand fists greedily into your hair, tugging your face toward him. You resist his forceful grip, however, wanting to take this at your speed—there’ll be time for him to set the pace later. Right now, you want to blow his mind.

So you slow down, kissing and licking, discovering his velvety skin in a way you haven’t really had the chance to before. You’re thoroughly enjoying yourself, basking in his undivided attention—not to mention the noises of pleasure he’s making. His breathing is heavy, strangled moans escaping every so often from his throat. Plus the praise— _good girl. Just like that. Merlin, yes, keep going, don’t stop._

His hand is still buried in your hair, less to force you, more just to make sure you’re not going anywhere. His hips start to rock back and forth, seemingly of their own accord, driving himself into your mouth, and his fingers tighten. You respond by picking up the pace, moving your tongue wickedly, and Severus groans. He staggers back, apparently caught off guard, bumping back against his desk. His head is thrown back again, and his hands move away from your hair to clutch at the lip of the desktop, knuckles white.

You smile to yourself—he’s getting close, you can tell. But just as you decide to show him what you can really do, his hand is back in your hair, gripping, and he tugs you away.

You let out a little cry of surprise, gazing up with the injured look of someone who’s just been denied their favorite toy. But he just catches his breath, still holding your hair, and looks away from you, shaking his head and chuckling slightly. You smirk up at him, and the unguarded expression fades back into his usual sternness.

“Stand up,” he orders, the hand in your hair finally moving to your upper arm.

“But—” you start to argue, wanting to finish the job, but he quickly pulls you to your feet, shushing you by pulling you close. His hands run over your skin, burning, moving down to your thighs and under your skirt to clutch at your bare ass. 

“It seems you’ve done that before,” he says, voice still harsh and breathless, maybe a little disapproving. You smirk, raising your eyebrows.

“Was I good, sir?”

In lieu of a response, Severus rolls his eyes and suddenly whirls you around, pushing you backward against the desk. You stumble, reaching out to brace yourself on your hands and knocking over an unlit candle in the process. He stays close, pressing his long, lean form against you, splayed hands exploring your body. 

Then, quickly, he grips both of your thighs just above your knees and pushes you further back onto his desk. Your feet come up to rest on the surface, and he pushes himself between your spread legs, his mouth approaching your ear, breath sending bundles of goosebumps up your spine.

“How did you enjoy your day?” he whispers, working quickly and efficiently to push up your skirt and lean you further backwards. “I meant to ask.”

“It was torture, thanks,” you reply insolently, glaring up at him.

Severus’ low laugh rumbles through you as his eyes dart down to your chest and his long fingers dance along your ribs. “You’re very welcome.”

His hand moves slowly down your body, and it brushes against your wet, heated skin for a moment, causing you to gasp violently, a louder sound than you expected. He releases a responsive huff of breath, eyes latched on the view between your legs, and slowly slips two long fingers inside you. 

Your moan is loud and helpless. You can’t believe how sensitive you are, suddenly and surprisingly close to release with just this simple invasion of his fingers. Severus’ breath catches in his throat, eyes widening a little.

“Oh Merlin,” he groans, seemingly amazed by the state you’re in. “You’re already tightening around my fingers.”

“Sev,” you gasp, unable to help the sensations rippling through you as Severus’ fingers move in and out slowly.

He only does it a few more times before he stops, and your eyes fly open, betrayed. You wiggle your hips, trying something, _anything,_ to get him to stop teasing. But his hooded eyes merely rake your body as his fingers leave you entirely.

 _“Please,”_ you whisper. You can’t believe how raw your voice is. 

He seems to decide to take pity on you, guiding himself against you, pressing close between your thighs. But that’s really all it takes. You feel the hard, velvet press of him, and a desperate moan escapes you, louder than any of the ones before it. You start to tremble violently before he’s even fully inside you. 

It's so, _so good._

Severus seems to like that reaction. He groans in response and thrusts deep, already moving fast. You fall back against the desk, helpless against the waves of pleasure crashing over you, as he bares down, hands gripping, breath rough. His eyes, between curtains of his dark hair, are black and intense, and strangled, throaty noises escape unbidden from his throat—sounds of exertion and pleasure.

He’s going hard, fast, a roughness and desperation you rarely see in him. Like he can’t help himself. Like he’s trying to kill you both. You just keep riding out what is starting to feel like an everlasting high, letting him take charge.

At that pace, and after the long, needful week before it, it doesn’t last terribly long. Some part of you is grateful when he throws back his head and moans, shuddering to a halt.

You lie on his desk, his hands clenched at your hips, for a long, long moment. Both of you catch your breath, and the stars start to clear from your eyes. Holy shit. You knew you were good together, but even rough and quick as it was, that was kind of...There's no other word for it. That was _insane._

Severus seems to be thinking something similar. He pushes sweaty strands of hair from his pale face and shakes his head, long fingers toying gently with a strand of your hair. “What a pretty mess,” he says, voice still rough.

You roll your eyes and smile. "Happy birthday," you say simply. You can't tell if the expression on his face in response is a grimace or a smile. Probably a mix of both.

He removes his hand from hair slowly. Another long moment passes—you feel heady and buzzing, a bit like jelly. You want to stay here with him forever.

Severus steps back from you, and your heart sinks. He’s about to kick you out, you just know it. You’re already pouting by the time you sit up off the desk. Severus sees the look on your face and knows exactly what it’s about. He rolls his eyes derisively.

But before you can open your mouth to argue, he speaks. And his words surprise you. “Let’s...continue this in my bedroom.”

He’s already moving toward the tapestry in the corner. Eagerly, you scramble off the desk and follow him.

 _Continue,_ huh? You like the sound of that.


	29. Stained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is loooooong and full of drama. And there’s angst here, too, as well as mentions of dealing with death. So be prepared!
> 
> And below is the...third set of lyrics from AFI? What can I say, I love them.
> 
> But I love you all even more than I love 2000s emo music. Let me know what you think of the chapter!

* * *

_For a change, I’ll refrain  
_ _From hiding all of me from you.  
_ _(Here's my lullaby)  
_ _Pray for rain, lose your name,  
_ _And watch all your dreams fall through.  
_ _(Hush now, don't you cry)_

"The Interview" - AFI

* * *

You spend a long time in his bedroom on the night of his birthday, making up for the week before.

Snape has to congratulate himself on his own present idea—that had been spectacular. Watching you struggle through your day, clearly aroused and eager, was one of the most provocative, tempting displays he’d ever seen. Though he admits it was a struggle for him, as well. He had to focus on teaching for four entire hours, knowing it was happening. Knowing you were somewhere in the castle, minus your knickers, all for him.

And when he actually _saw_ you? Good gods. Double Potions that day was not easy.

“I couldn’t believe how you looked,” he says. 

You’re both lying atop his bed, amidst tangled sheets, heads together, staring thoughtfully up at the canopy. Images of you from this afternoon play through his head—the redness of your cheeks, the way your lips already looked swollen though he hadn’t even kissed you yet, the sultry heat in your eyes. Not to mention the way your school uniform clung to your bare body. How soft and supple you looked beneath those clothes.

“I couldn’t believe they let you walk around the school, looking like that.” He turns toward you, examining your pretty profile until you turn toward him too, and your noses nearly touch. “You must have been quite a distraction in your classes.”

“Not really,” you say, smiling and tilting up to kiss the tip of his nose. “Not that I noticed.”

“Precisely, Miss [Last name],” Snape replies, rolling his eyes and turning back to face the ceiling. “Not that _you_ noticed.”

“What does that mean?”

Snape smirks, a hand coming thoughtfully up to his mouth. “It means that Terrance Zimmer, usually the best potioneer among you, barely managed a brew I saw him do perfectly in his third year.” He smirks at the thought. “And Maggie Thripp—who, to be fair, stares at you quite frequently—turned in an unacceptable result.” You open your mouth to argue, but he continues before you can: _“And_ Finnegan Grimsby, who did not even finish his potion.”

It should have irritated him, he reflects, his students’ distraction. But instead, it filled him with a warm sort of pride. Because you are not Grimsby’s. You are not Thripp’s or Zimmer’s or Weasley’s. You are his, Severus Snape’s. And that feels even better than your body when it is moving around him—which is, to date, one of the best sensations he’s ever experienced.

You laugh, clapping a hand over your mouth, suddenly embarrassed. “Oh my god, I wasn’t flashing them, right?”

“You didn’t have to,” Snape replies. He considers a moment, looking at you. “There’s something erotic about you, [First name]. I don’t think you realize. Your eyes, perhaps, or your mouth. It was...especially bad today.”

You laugh, rolling over to straddle him. You’re naked, and he still has his shirt on, but you don’t really bring it up anymore. Which is something of a relief, at least.

“I’ll show you erotic,” you purr, leaning down to kiss him.

* * *

He lets you spend the night, though he does set an early alarm. You’re pleased by this—it’s his birthday, so it probably means he enjoys it when you share his bed. Of course, you don’t get to sleep until quite late, and by then you’re both exhausted. It’s like a spirit was in the air. You’ve lost count of the times you’ve made love today.

You're woken around three in the morning by a strange sound—you’re not sure what. A voice, perhaps or a groan. You lie in bed, eyes open wide, staring at the black canopy and trying to figure out what you heard. Beside you, Severus’ warm body is curled in on itself, sleeping deeply.

The noise happens again, a deep groan, startling you—but only for a moment before you realize its source.

Severus.

You sit up to watch him or offer comfort, whatever you can. He’s restless in his sleep, body twitching as though wanting to spring out of bed. His face is buried in his pillow, but there’s a deep crease between his eyebrows, and his mouth opens and closes, forming words that come out in moans and stilted syllables.

“Here...no...no, don’t...please...don’t...”

You watch him, your face crumpling in sadness. His white hands clutch the sheets, clawing, trying to find purchase, something to hold on to.

A nightmare. He’s having a nightmare—a bad one at that, it seems.

“Stop...” His voice is breathless, pleading. “Don’t let it...no, please...”

What to do? Do you wake him? Ruin his night of sleep? Or will this dream fade, as they all do, and pass into sweeter places?

“Gods, no, please... _please,_ not her...”

Your heart breaks. You’ve never heard him like this, so helpless, so desperate. You didn’t know his voice could fill with such emotion. 

Making a choice, you reach out and gently clasp his shoulder. “Sev?” No response. You shake him slightly, then harder, raising your voice. “Severus.”

He’s awake in an instant, vacuuming in a gasp and sitting bolt upright in bed. You scramble back as his limbs flail, narrowly avoiding an elbow in the face, watching his chest heave in the darkness, hearing him catch his breath.

“Sev?” you ask softly, putting a hand on his back. He flinches, but his head turns to you. “Sev, you’re okay. It was just a dream.”

“Lil—” He swallows, stops himself, pushes some hair back from his face. You’re not sure what he was about to say. “[First name]?”

“I’m here,” you say, scooting closer, wrapping your arms around his narrow waist. He brings his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose, a stress expression you haven’t seen in quite a while. Through the darkness, you can barely make out his eyes, but his face seems drawn and intense.

“I apologize,” he says, and you can tell his jaw is clenched. “I must have woken you.”

You laugh. _That’s_ what he’s concerned about? “Don’t be stupid,” you say, giving him a squeeze. He’s not loosening into your arms, and it worries you. “Are...you okay?”

He falters a moment before barely forcing the word “yes” from between gritted teeth. You snuggle closer, hand tracing his bony spine under the silky night shirt he wears, and just hold him for a long moment. And slowly, with your comforting warm weight against him, Severus starts to relax.

You go with him as he leans back against the headboard, riding out his adrenaline rush. The more you think about it, the more you think this wasn’t your ordinary nightmare. You’ve had bad dreams, sure, but none with this lasting of an impact—certainly none that had you bolting upright in bed.

You sigh, tracing Severus’ firm stomach in silence as his breathing finally goes back to normal. His arms tighten around you in silent thanks.

“What was the dream?” you ask gently, because you want him to know he can talk about it. Actually, you think talking about it would probably help him sleep. You’re expecting a sigh, or a shrug, or even a chuckle as he gears up to explain. 

What you _don’t_ expect is to feel Severus’ entire body stiffen against you. Nor his throaty, curt response: _“Nothing.”_

Frowning, you sit up to watch him through the darkness. His hands are at his sides, fingers gripping the bed sheets, and he won’t look at you.

“You can tell me, Sev,” you assure him softly, brushing hair from his eyes. “If you want.”

But instead of responding, he pulls away from you. He climbs out of bed, leaving you tangled naked in the blankets, and lights a candle on the bedside table. Facing away from you, he quickly shrugs on his black dressing gown, and there is a long moment of silence. You watch him, worried. Something is happening here.

Still not looking at you, Severus ducks his head and finally says, “Perhaps you should go back to your own bed.”

“Hold on,” you start to protest, but he glances back at you over his shoulder, and you stop short at the intensity in his eyes.

“It's nearly time, anyway,” he says, gesturing to the clock beside the bed (which is not true—you have almost an entire hour left before the alarm.) “You are already awake. There’s no point...”

“Come back to bed,” you demand, reaching out to him. 

But Severus merely sighs and shakes his head. When he turns around to you fully, his face has softened. “Go to your dorm,” he repeats, low and sad. “I have...work to do, anyway.”

Then he strides out of the room into his darkened office. Affronted, worried, you scramble out of bed and take another one of his dressing gowns from a hook beside the bed—it’s his second favorite, so you’ve laid claim. 

Thus covered, you follow him quickly. He’s slowly pointing his wand at the candles around his office, which flare up under his glance. He looks shaken. That nightmare...It was more than a fantasy baked up by his amygdala, you’re sure of that. There’s some kind of _trauma_ here.

“Sev...” you say, watching his drawn expression.

“[First name].” He turns to you, exasperated but gentle, clearly sorry. “Please.”

That one word breaks your resolve. You realize he wants to—perhaps _needs_ to—be alone, and who are you to argue? Something deeply personal is happening in his head right now, and he’s not ready to share it with you.

The thought is painful. You can’t think of a single aspect of your life you wouldn’t share with him. But Severus is not like you. He runs deep, and he buries pain deeper.

So fighting the urge to be angry or hurt, you just nod and give him a weak smile. “Okay,” you say. 

His eyes snap to you—clearly, he expected more arguments—but he looks relieved. He approaches you swiftly, taking you into his arms and laying a sweet kiss against your mouth.

“Good night,” he whispers. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “And...don’t worry.”

“Okay,” you say again, kissing his cheek gently. You pull away and quickly gather your school uniform and robe, slipping them on. You can’t find your tie, but you’re sure he will. 

One more soft kiss—Severus is sitting behind his desk now, already examining the piles of ungraded papers there—and you head out the door. You pause at the threshold, looking back at your dark, guarded, and evidently very tortured man. You want to say something. Something that tells him how much you care, how much you truly hope he’s okay.

“You’re incredible,” is all you can think to say. Which you’ve told him before, and it seems a bit pathetic now. But what else can you do? 

You slip out the door, but not before catching his surprised expression as he watches you go.

* * *

Snape is pleased to find that everything is ordinary between you two the next day. He worried you would be hurt by his expulsion of you from his quarters—and you were, he could tell—but you also seem to understand. 

He does not want to think of the dream. It was more like reliving his worst memory, actually. Such nightmares happen occasionally—some annoying symptom of PTSD, he’s sure—but they’ve always had supremely abysmal timing. Usually when he’s stressed or buried under work, disrupting much needed rest. And now he can add this delightful experience to the list. Nearly ruining the best birthday he can remember.

 _Nearly_ being the operative word.

Because the next day, there you are, smiling at him in class. Chatting easily during Felix maintenance. Kissing him and whispering sweetly. No mention of the nightmare. Making it easy on him.

He wants to open himself to you, he truly does. He knows he should, and he _is_ trying. But he can’t. Not yet. He doesn’t know when, or if ever, but he knows not yet. 

Though he _wants_ to.

He is not used to that feeling— _wanting_ to open up. You are easily the most important person in his life, the only one who really comes close to...well, really coming close to him. It seems absurd, as you have known each other for less than a year. But every other relationship he has is complicated, distant or...strained (to say the least). 

He wonders if you know that. He wonders if it matters. Because perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps it will simply always be too painful for him. Perhaps being important to him, being _his_ person, is not enough to break down these barriers in his skull. He hopes you know he feels helpless against them—they are not purposely constructed. If he could, he would tear them down and expose every piece of himself, every raw and open nerve, to you. Only to you. No one else has ever made the possibility so tempting.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he simply _can’t._

All things as they are, a week passes. You don’t bring up the nightmare, but your relationship seems intact nonetheless. Easy and intimate. You are not holding onto silent resentment or making him suffer. And he is grateful. You’ve let it go.

It’s a Thursday, which means inventory. Snape is carefully organizing the ingredients in his personal stores, which he knows like the back of his hand. You are due at any moment for Felix maintenance, and he feels rather content. The times between class and when you leave his office for dinner are easily his favorite hours of the day.

He hears your key in his door at this point, and his hand stills for a moment before putting an ingredient back on the shelf. You are always such a damnable distraction—as soon as your presence is even hinted at, he stops thinking of anything else.

He turns as you enter, noticing immediately that you look stormy, even a little tearful. He frowns, equal parts dread and anger washing over him. Did someone hurt you? 

You shrug quickly out of your snow-dusted robe and flop sullenly in his armchair, folding your arms across your chest as you fold your legs at the thighs. You are pouting, quite prettily, but it doesn’t look like you’re in any real trouble. Drama with your friends, perhaps, or another teacher telling you off. He never minds when you need to complain or let off steam about others—in fact, it warms him to you.

“What happened?” he demands.

You reach out to grip the arms of the chair and heave yourself upright dramatically. “George _fucking_ Weasley!” you say.

Snape’s expression falls flat, and he rolls his eyes, turning back to the cupboard. Yes, he’s heard all about George fucking Weasley. For the past week straight, in fact.

But you ignore his derision, saying, “I’ve left him...I don’t even know how many notes. I even asked Benji to talk to him for me, and they barely know each other. But he won’t listen! He just walks away when I come near. It’s so fucking...fucking...”

“Juvenile?” Snape supplies, replacing ingredients. “Childish?” He smirks. _“Pubescent?”_

 _“Unfair!”_ you say. “It’s bullshit. All over some fictional American boyfriend. I didn’t even lie to him, not really. If he really _liked_ me, you’d think he’d let me explain, right? Besides he has a girlfriend, so what does he even care? He’s just _hurt_ because he has a stupid _crush_ on me.”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Snape replies, turning to face you again, “I’d think _you_ had a crush on _him._ The way you carry on.”

He says it like a joke, but it has a ring of truth to it. He is sick of hearing about this. Would you be this upset if Snape stopped speaking with you?

You just roll your eyes, all too aware of his feelings. “I _really_ liked being friends with the twins,” you say. “They’re fun, and when they get exhausting, I can just step away. I can’t imagine dating them, though. Because yes, they’re pretty childish.” You smirk. “So for the thousandth time, don’t be jealous.” Snape does not dignify that with a response, and you sigh. “And obviously, with George mad at me, Fred’s not speaking to me either. So I lose both of them.”

“Make new friends,” Snape advises. “Girls this time, perhaps.” You quirk an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. “Would it kill you?”

“I don’t want new friends.”

“Yes, perhaps that's for the best,” Snape replies, suddenly remembering something. "You seem to have rather terrible taste in them." As he speaks, he strides to his desk and withdraws today’s _Prophet,_ opening it toward the back. He comes back around to hold it in front of your face. “Recognize anyone?”

Your clever eyes scan the page for a moment before widening. Then you seize the paper from him and read, “Alexandre Arseneau to be prosecuted by Wizengamot for unlawful use of Cruciatus Curse.” You slap the paper down into your lap, staring up at him with shock. “Is this fucking real?”

“You told me once that he wanted to be an Auror,” Snape says, a hand coming up to his chin, unable to keep from smirking. You giggle, clapping a hand to your mouth as you look down at the paper again. “Goodbye to _that_ dream.”

“Holy shit,” you say, staring at the paper, eyes moving back and forth across the short article. Slowly though, while you read, the grin slips away. You look up to him after a while, a crease between your brows. “You didn’t...you didn’t fight for this, did you? Like, try to get him charged?”

Snape frowns. You’re strangely paranoid about what revenge Alexandre Arseneau could take on you—you’re convinced he will try to expose this relationship. Snape does not share these concerns. The boy might have his suspicions, but he really knows nothing. 

All the same, he answers honestly. “No, [First name]. I didn’t have to.” He paces away from you, trailing his fingers along his desktop as you sit back in the chair, relaxing. “The headmaster was rather keen to make an example.”

“Good old Dumbledore,” you say, smiling as you look down at the paper again.

“His trial is next month,” Snape muses, leaning back against his desk and idly picking up a book there. “I am not looking forward to it.”

“Why should you care?” you ask. 

Snape glances at you, amused. “I was the victim, was I not?” He rolls his eyes. “They want to ask me a few questions.” He catches your look of instant concern. “You will not be brought in,” he assures you. “Dumbledore and I made sure of that.”

“No,” you say, reaching forward to clasp his hands. Snape frowns—you seem inordinately upset by this. “Sev, the Wizengamot—I mean, they’re known for being pretty...thorough, aren’t they?”

“What are you on about?” Snape asks, genuinely confused now. You’ve been paranoid before, but this is particularly bad.

“What if they...I don’t know, access your memories?” you say.

Snape regards you, mildly surprised as you jump to your feet to begin pacing back and forth. You’re agitated, flustered, ramping up into one of your long speeches—those charmingly annoying things you call ‘rambles.’

“What if they reach into your head,” you continue before he has a chance to get a word in, “and they go through all the stuff that happened that night? I mean, they’ll see what Alex did, sure, but all the other stuff? I don’t know if you remember it, Sev, but that was a pretty...big night for us. Like, lots of interactions.” You give him a significant look, and he almost can’t keep from laughing. You notice his amusement, and try to press further. _“Kissing_ type interactions,” you say earnestly. When he does not react, when he only smiles and shakes his head, you look at him like he’s crazy, gesturing back and forth. “Between me and you?” At his lingering silence, you drop your gesticulating arms in a huff. “Am I fucking insane for thinking this is a problem? Your life could get ruined if this gets out!”

Snape is chuckling now—he can’t help it. How sweet you are. How maddeningly adorable. And for all your insistence that you are mature and grown up, you can be utterly naive sometimes. 

_“What?”_ you snap, getting annoyed by his laughter, which only makes him laugh harder. He shakes his head, holding his hands up in self-defense when you stomp toward him.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles. “Deepest apologies.” He shakes his head again, takes a deep breath and calms himself. Then he takes your hands in his. “You needn’t worry about that.”

“Oh _needn’t_ I?” you snap, pulling away, clearly quite annoyed. 

Snape shrugs. “I’m an Occlumens, [First name].”

The look on your face is perfect. He should have told you months ago. Your mouth drops open, filling him with a pride he’s not used to. 

“Are you serious?”

He shrugs again. “A fairly experienced one, too,” he admits. “I’m confident I can guard my mind against their tricks. Should that even be necessary, which,” he smirks again, “I seriously doubt.”

You’re staring at him with a strange look—probing, impressed, intense. As if this is the most extraordinary news you’ve ever heard. As if you can’t even believe you’re standing before him, a mere mortal.

He shakes his head, scoffing. “It's not _that_ impressive,” he says, “I assure you.”

“God, how are you this _sexy?”_ you demand, striding forward to wrap your arms around his neck. Snape laughs aloud then, pleased, and lets you kiss him.

* * *

The next day, Friday, you receive a pleasant surprise in the form a canceled Ancient Runes class (Professor Babbling is ill today, apparently). Colin has that subject with you, and you both head down to the Great Hall after finding Babbling's note on her locked classroom door. You run into Benji on the way, just coming from Transfiguration. You haven’t seen much of him lately—Victoire has been keeping him busy, and more and more conspicuously _away_ from you.

So you and Colin guilt trip him into skipping his next class and hanging out, just the three of you, like old times. Benji is getting less patient with Victoire anyway, it seems—lots of sighing or exasperated eyerolls when she comes up. Either her shine is wearing off, or she’s being quite nasty about you behind your back. You guess the latter. Benji is loyal enough to you that you’re sure it would bother him.

George still won’t speak to you, while we're on the subject of people who hate you. You’re not sure what to do anymore. You’ve sent him notes, tried to waylay him in the halls, sent messengers—nothing but icey silence in return. Maybe he’s trying to rid himself of you, guard himself against future heartbreak. You can understand that. Or maybe he’s just pissed. But either way, you don’t want to let him cast you off. You’ll find a way to win him over again. Somehow.

But not today. You bask in the company of Colin and Benji, forgetting George, talking and laughing at inside jokes as you wind your way out of the Entrance Hall and down to the snowy school grounds. It’s one of the few sunny days this month, but it’s still frigid. You pull your heavy cloak around you and hope the boys won’t start tossing snow at you.

Benji is currently pontificating upon the hangover cure he invented, grinning that bright white grin. “I really think we’ve turned a corner, ladies and gents,” he says. “Thank god for Club—whenever I run out of ideas, you all come in swinging.” He shakes his head, laughing when you sling an arm around his narrow waist and squeeze. “Brilliant of Snape to let us brew it. I never thought he would.”

You flush, looking down. You and your strip teases are to thank for that—not that he was dead set against it, anyway. If he had been, no amount of seduction would have swayed him.

“I just want it finished,” Colin says, grinning. “World’s most useful potion.”

The three of you are laughing about this when a sharp, sudden voice rings out behind you.

“Benji!”

Your group turns, and your heart sinks. Victoire is marching at you across the snow, curls flying behind her, breath steaming from the cold. Her cheeks are red, her eyes narrowed, and her fists clenched. In one hand you see, with a jolt, a rolled up copy of the _Daily Prophet._ Yesterday's edition, no doubt.

“Victoire!” Benji says magnanimously, coming toward his girlfriend, not noticing or blatantly ignoring the fact that she is clearly pissed. He holds out his arms to her. “I thought you had class.”

“I do,” she spits, stopping short before your group and giving you a wicked glare. You suddenly have the urge to hide behind Colin and only narrowly keep yourself from doing so. “And so do you. What are you doing out here?” She looks you up and down. “With _her.”_

“Oh, come on,” Benji sighs, dropping his arms. “We’ve been over this. I’m not ditching my friends—”

“Have you seen this?” Victoire demands, shoving the _Prophet_ into Benji’s hands. You don’t have to see the article to know it describes Alex’s upcoming trial. 

Benji’s face falls as he looks it over, and he glances at you, concerned. You tense—does part of him, even the smallest part, believe you exaggerated Alex’s actions to get him in trouble? It’s clearly what Victoire and the other Beauxbatoners believe. How persuasive is Victoire, anyway?

“His future is ruined,” Victoire spits, then her angry gaze turns to you. “Thank you very much for that.”

Not thinking, you parrot Severus’ sentiments from a few weeks ago. “Alex ruined his own future,” you say firmly. In your periphery, you’re relieved to see Colin’s firm nod.

Victoire’s eyes widen, affronted and furious, and she raises a finger at you as though wishing to strike you dead. Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, too angry to form words.

Finally, she rips her eyes toward Benji and snatches the _Prophet_ back from him. “She is a _liar,”_ she hisses. You lurch at this, growing angry in turn, opening your mouth to argue. But Victoire just continues, “And I don’t associate with trash like this.” 

“Trash!” you repeat, almost laughing. Your wand is suddenly in your hand, though you can’t remember consciously choosing to draw it. Only Colin’s soothing hand on your arm restrains you.

“So choose, Benji,” Victoire says, eyes going hooded as she looks over you superciliously. “Trash, or me.”

Then she turns and stalks away. You feel like screaming. You wish you could go after her and hex her stupid, smug face. And at the same time, you feel bad for her, that she is so taken in by Alex Arseneau’s chauvinistic narrative.

You hold on to the latter feeling with all your might, sliding your wand back up your sleeve. But it’s difficult. Especially as Benji turns toward you, pale and worried.

“Sorry, [First name],” he says softly. And before you can ask him what for, he jogs off, yelling, “Victoire! Darling, wait up, please!”

Well, there it is. He chose after all, and with barely a moment to think about it. Shock rings through you—Benji always claimed he had your back, that he believed you. But that is clearly not the case. 

The shock is fading now, leaving dull and helpless despair. Your shoulders slump and tears prick your eyes. Well, that’s another friend gone.

Colin’s warm, muscular arm slides over your shoulders, and you sniffle before stamping your foot, frustrated.

“Fuck this,” you say. It’s not fair. You’re the victim here! This shouldn’t be happening.

“He’ll wise up,” Colin assures you. He shrugs. “That, or he’s even a bigger git than I thought.”

You snort through your tears and turn to hug him.

Spending time with Colin cheers you up significantly, and you are reluctantly persuaded that Benji will come around—he’s not a complete idiot, he’s just pussy whipped. Colin keeps his cheerful air, joking and complimenting and doing everything he can to sooth you. 

It works. By the time you walk into Potions that afternoon, in fact, you’re almost smiling. And you’re _very_ ready to see your Potions Master.

Severus doesn’t disappoint, either. His dark eyes glitter your way as soon as you step through the door, followed by a signature lift of his brow that you’ve come to recognize as a promise of sex. It’s like a Pavlovian response at this point—he quirks a brow, you’re suddenly turned on.

You get to work on a tricky antidote for Spattergroit, the ingredients for which are captivatingly rare and finicky. It’s a lucky thing, too, because it gives you an excuse to avoid Benji. He hasn’t said a word all class, and he continues this trend as you brew—usually he would be chatting, but his eyes are firmly downcast to the dungeon floor. He looks ashamed. _Good._ But the complicated directions on Severus’ board are more than enough to keep you from dwelling too deeply on it.

After an hour, you’re through the worst part of the potion and are standing at your cauldron, watching it, stirring every few minutes. You finally glance up to check on Severus’ status—you’ve lost track of him, engrossed in the potion.

He’s leaning casually against his desk, arms crossed, watching his students silently. As soon as your eyes meet, however, he silkily unfolds his arms and straightens. You watch him slowly scan your body, purposefully letting you know he’s checking you out. Then he steps toward you.

Your entire body starts buzzing, but he doesn’t beeline to your desk. Instead, he makes a slow circuit around the room, his long black robes flowing behind him. Candlelight glints off his dark hair, casts his pale skin in favorable light as he stops at other cauldrons to whisper warnings or words of encouragement to your peers. You keep meeting flashes of his onyx eyes while he passes each student and paces around behind them. 

You look back down to your potion, feeling your own pulse, hearing your own breath in your ears. God, how does he do this to you? You’ve been sleeping with him consistently for nearly two months. Is he ever going to stop being able to seduce you with a glance? Are you ever going to tire of the way he moves?

You feel his presence behind you, coming up ostensibly to check your potion.

“Miss [Last name],” he says softly, a little closer than he usually stands, but not by much. He looks over your shoulder. “How is it coming?”

“Fine,” you say. “I think—does this shade of purple look—” You falter, almost gasp when you feel his long white fingers brush the hem of your skirt at your backside. He glances at you, raising an eyebrow, and you clear your throat. “Look—look okay to you?”

Severus examines the potion thoughtfully, but his hand is not being so professional. It dips fully under your skirt, hovering in the warm space between your thighs. You shift slightly, widening your legs for him.

“It’s a bit light,” he muses, his fingers brushing ever-so-softly against the lace over your ass, making your entire body go rigid and goose-prickly. “It needs a longer simmer, until it darkens.” 

Then his middle finger brushes the lace-covered flesh between your legs, firm and commanding, and you have to fight hard against another gasp as heat floods you. You can’t _believe_ him. His hand up your skirt, rubbing you in the middle of class! Though he is blocking the view from the rest of his students, this is beyond risky. _Bastard._

He’s always been very good at balancing risk with reward though, you’ll give him that. No one notices a thing.

“Okay, sir,” you breathe as his finger presses harder, nearly slipping beneath your panties but stopping just short.

“Good,” he replies. You can hear the smirk in his voice.

Then his hand is gone, and so is the rest of him. You sigh, suddenly very heated and distracted. You hate when he teases...almost as much as you love it.

You get through the rest of class, somehow, but as soon as the bell rings, you meet his eye and mouth, _Office. Now._ He nods, smirking, and you race there to wait for him.

He doesn’t take long, striding in, locking the door and casting _Muffliato._ And you are on him in an instant, wrapping your arms around his neck, driving him back toward the door. He lets you, stumbling a bit, and you reach up to undo the clasp of his cloak, letting it flutter to the floor. He is going to _pay_ for that.

You reach up to kiss him heatedly, faster than he perhaps expects, which causes him to bump back into the door behind him. He chuckles against your lips at your eagerness, his broad pale hands splayed possessively over your torso. Your own fingers work rapidly at the buttons of his jacket— _so many damn buttons._ You need to see him shirtless today, you decide. You need to touch his skin and kiss the veins in his arms.

You’ve only seen him undressed once, as ridiculous as that seems, the very first time you met. And you barely remember it through the haze of alcohol. Every other time, even while sleeping in his bed, he’s remained almost fully clothed. 

Well, not to-fucking-day.

Severus chuckles again, surprised, when you forcibly rip the coat off his shoulders, baring his black cotton shirt, the hint of his pale chest beneath. He leans back from you, his eyebrows raised, amused. You don’t blame him—he’s usually the dominant one, the bodice ripper, calling all the shots and retaining his composure while reducing you to a quivering mess. This is quite the role reversal.

“Eager today, Miss [Last name],” he purrs, his voice slipping like velvet over your skin.

Moaning, you lean up to push your tongue against his throat, just under the line of his jaw, feeling his steady pulse. You wriggle your body against him, and his hands spread over your sides, luxuriating in your soft curves under the uniform top. He remains passive—you wouldn’t say _submissive,_ but certainly passive. He’s letting you take charge. For the moment.

“I want you,” you whisper, reaching up to give his lower lip a quick nip, _“daddy”_

Severus’ eyebrows raise, his lips curl slightly and he looks down at you over his nose, both deeply amused and utterly appalled by you calling him that. Then he scoffs, shakes his head and rolls his eyes as if you’re the most ridiculous thing. You laugh as he buries a hand into your hair and pulls your mouth toward his.

“Hey,” you say, leaning back, smiling. “You started it.”

“Quiet, little girl,” he growls, overly-authoritative, and you shiver in delight. “Or you’ll be punished.”

“Ooh,” you say. “I’m scared.”

Chuckling, Severus spins you both roughly around and pushes you backwards against his desk, making it rock, scattering pens, toppling candles. You gasp as his hand slides under your knee, raising it against his side.

“You little brat,” Severus whispers, nose to nose. “Are you asking to be disciplined?”

“No, sir,” you reply breathlessly as his fingers go between your legs. “Though that would be a bonus.” He scoffs, stroking you. Then you remember your initial goal. Getting his clothes off. All of them, this time.

You quickly unbutton his shirt, and he pauses when it’s at his navel, looking down at the process. A shadow of concern crosses his features, but you just send him a cheeky smile and part the fabric to display his smooth white chest. His flat stomach meets the peaks of his hip bones, jutting out from his slacks in an incredibly sexy way. His chest is mostly smooth, but a black trail of coarse hair starts beneath his belly button and disappears under his slacks. While he’s more skinny than chiseled, there is silent strength in his broad shoulders and lithe lines. He’s beautiful.

You notice immediately that he is criss-crossed with scars—most from thin cuts, but a few deeper knots. Is that why he never takes his shirt off? You swirl your tongue over a long one running across his collarbone. 

You think it’s sexy. Maybe he was a big dueler in his youth. The fact that you have no idea where he got all of these is yet another reminder that Severus Snape is multifaceted and deeply complex.

He groans, low in his chest, when you flick your tongue over one of his nipples. His fingers grip at your thighs, his eyes squeezing shut. Otherwise, he’s very still. 

You pick up one of his broad hands, then the other, undoing his cufflinks—the silver snakes you gave him for Christmas—and you let the cuffs fall open at his wrists. When you let go of him, his hands go mechanically back to your hips. He’s still not moving.

“Touch me, daddy,” you reiterate, running your hands up and over his warm bare shoulders, under his shirt, to try to spur him on. You want the quick pace you were working with before.

But instead of speeding up, Severus pulls an inch away from you. “Wait,” he says lowly.

“What?” you ask, looking up breathlessly. His entire torso is bared to you—you just have to get his sleeves off, then start working on the pants. “Why?”

You try to peel his shirt further off, only for him to shrug the sleeves back onto his shoulders. You frown at him.

“We’ll resume this later,” Severus says, and there’s something in his eyes that bothers you. Shadow. Dishonesty. He won’t look at you. “I have work to do.”

“Bullshit,” you say, almost laughing. “It’s Friday! Besides, you were teasing the shit out of me all class. Is this not what you wanted to happen?” 

Severus still won’t meet your eye, his brow furrowed. You start getting worried. 

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask, trying to think what. Kissing his scars? Calling him daddy?

His eyes flick up to yours instantly, concerned and intent. “No,” he replies. “No, [First name]—you are nothing less than perfect.”

“Then...then kiss me, huh?” you reply, trying to read his black gaze. He looks...sad. Tortured. 

_What the hell?_

Still, he kisses you. Hard. Almost desperate. His fingers grip at your ass, pulling you toward him, holding tight. You touch his chest, testing, even tracing his scars with your fingers, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. If anything, it makes him shiver in pleasure.

So before he can stop you, you quickly push his shirt off his shoulders, and it flutters to the floor.

Severus tenses against you, but you just run your hands over his shoulders, determined to tell him with your body how beautiful you think he is. He kisses you, eyes squeezed closed, that crease between his brows not going anywhere. Deepening, if anything.

Reaching down, you grab his left wrist, planning to kiss his fingers, lick down his _(bare!)_ arm.

But as soon as he feels you tug, Severus jerks roughly away from you. You stop, stunned, clamping down reflexively around his wrist to keep him from going too far. 

He freezes, his shoulders hunched, staring at you through strands of his onyx hair. And his breath is heavy, short. And his eyes are angry.

Then those eyes flick away from you, pain streaking through them, and you follow their direction down to his left forearm.

You gasp.

Severus rips away from you fully, hiding his arm against his chest, staggering back. But it’s too late. You’ve already seen the Dark Mark there, jet black against white flesh. That gruesome skull, the snake weaving in and out.

There’s a long, silent, horrible moment. You stare at Severus, unsure what you’re feeling. Akin to someone finding out their boyfriend has a swastika tattoo. A mix of rage and disgust and sadness.

_No wonder he didn’t want me to take his shirt off._

_Oh god...no..._

_No!_

_No, not him. No, no, no,_ please, _no, he’s so_ good! _Please tell me he’s not one of them. Please tell me he’s not that good of a liar!_

Your eyes fill with tears, a deep well of betrayal bubbling over as you stare at him, silent and pale, looking intently at the floor. 

He didn’t tell you. He let you touch him without you knowing. Took away your agency, your choice in the matter. Kept his evil ideologies and his past so well hidden from you. 

If you’d known he was a Death Eater, you never would have come close.

Your heart is breaking. Does everyone know? Are you the only fucking idiot to be taken in by his bad-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold act?

Not speaking, you slide off the desk and right your skirt. Severus’ broad mouth is a thin line, his hands curled into fists, every tendon looking ready to snap. You think he’s waiting for you to speak, but you can’t form words right now. It feels like your entire world has shattered. And god, it _hurts._

So you simply pick up your book bag and head to the door. You’re shaking, you realize.

You can’t do this.

His voice stops you when you open the door, low and thick and full of emotion. “[First name].”

You turn to look at him—pale and beautiful and so, so _stained._

“My mom is a No-Maj, you know,” you tell him, barely able to get the sentence out before tears start streaming down your face. “If you thought I was pureblood...”

His face crumples into a look of deep pain, deep distress. He reaches out to you, taking a step forward.

“No,” he says. “[First name], please, let me explain...”

You sob at your name on his lips, something you’ve fought so hard for and never stop loving. But the arm he reaches out to you is his left. The one bearing the Mark. Your eyes go to it, and he notices. He immediately withdraws it, the pain and shame clear on his face.

“I have to be alone,” you whisper. “I have to think.”

“Please,” he repeats.

“No,” you reply, voice hardening. He flinches at the tone, closing his eyes. “I need time to think.”

And you leave.

If he hadn’t cast _Muffliato_ on his office earlier, you would hear his frustrated, angry cry down the hallway, ragged and breaking. You would hear furniture being thrown, blasted apart. The entire castle would be witness to his pain and rage.

But as usual, besides Severus Snape himself, no one is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. What do you think will happen? Is this the end? Tell me your thoughts, babies.


	30. The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of these scenes is basically a beat by beat description of a scene from the amazing fan film “Severus Snape and the Marauders.” Go watch it on YouTube, seriously. It’s incredible. And the Snape therein is pretty much exactly how I imagine young Snaddy, except in my head he’s significantly taller and broader. But that face is perfect.
> 
> Another two scenes are from the books, word for word in dialogue. You’ll recognize them.
> 
> All tense changes are purposeful so don’t @me.
> 
> There’s a ton of angst here. I’m a blatant Snape-apologist, which will be abundantly clear, and I’m not sorry for it. But I truly believe this is accurate to his character. Let me know if you disagree.
> 
> Please take care of yourselves, my loves. Take a shower and eat something. Because you are precious and I love you, my babies.

* * *

_He looks her in the eyes, and he says,  
_ _"Hate me, break me,  
_ _Let me feel as hurt as you.  
_ _Push me, crush me,  
But promise me you'll never let us go." _

"Hate Me" - Eurielle

* * *

The following week is torture.

You don’t attend Felix maintenance sessions anymore. You don’t look at Severus in class. You don’t attend Club, citing too much homework as your pathetic excuse. And he lets you—he says nothing.

It feels very lonely. George still isn’t speaking to you, and Benji is trying to make things right with Victoire, so suddenly your social life is practically cut in half. If you were able to escape to Severus’ office, enjoy his company, you reflect bitterly, it wouldn’t be as bad. As it is, it absolutely fucking sucks.

You cry a lot, finding quiet places in the castle where no one will interrupt, where you can dwell on how bleak things suddenly are. You're grieving and angry, stressed and betrayed, and at times it feels overwhelming. Colin notices something is wrong, of course, but you think he chalks it up to your issues with George and Benji. You don't elaborate--it's easier this way. You can’t talk to him about it. Him or anyone. Though you'd love to. You’d love to bounce it off your friends, get their opinions. Get their comfort and empathy.

But you can’t. You’re just left alone with a lot of time to think.

And slowly, a plan begins to crystallize in your mind.

You want Severus to explain. To hear him out. The thing is, you won’t be able to trust a single thing he tells you. Even if he somehow manages to justify being a Death Eater (which you doubt he’ll be able to do) there are so many ways he could bend or omit the truth. You can’t trust him.

So it’s either this or walk away completely. And you’re just not strong enough to do that.

You already know the basic idea of what you’re trying to do—you even took a few extracurricular Defence courses before being expelled from Salem. So you’ve actually cast the spell a few times. But the attempts were barely successful. You need more study and practice. 

So you gather every book you can find on your subject of interest. And you catch up to Colin that evening before dinner.

“Hey, I have a proposition,” you tell him. He raises an eyebrow at the book in your arms, reading the title.

“Okay...” he replies hesitantly. And you hold out the book to him and tell him what you want to do. 

Colin’s look grows sly after only a couple seconds. When your pitch is over, he enthusiastically agrees.

* * *

This past week has been torture. A nightmare. He hates himself. He misses you like air. He wants to grab you and shake you and fall at your feet. This is Lily all over again. But he’ll make good this time. He’ll beg if he has to. If you’d just _talk_ to him.

You haven’t. You’ve avoided even eye contact, and he doesn’t want to push too hard. But he’s reaching the end of his rope. He _has_ to be given a chance to explain—he deserves that much, after how close you’ve grown, after all you’ve been through, doesn’t he? _Doesn’t he?_

Snape doesn’t know. In all honesty, he probably doesn’t. But he’s angry—at himself, at his past. And yes, at you. 

_As if she knows anything._

Perhaps he should corner you, drag you aside— _force_ you to listen. And if at the end of his long-winded story and desperate explanations, all you do is leave him, so be it. At least there will be _closure_ then, instead of... _this._ You said you need time, and he’s trying to respect that. But how much more bloody _time_ do you need?

Snape groans, resting his head in his hands. He’s seated behind the desk in his office, trying to grade papers and failing abysmally. He glances at the clock. Nearly midnight. He thinks about going to bed, but he dreads lying awake again, mind churning.

A key suddenly jiggles in the lock across the room, and Snape’s head shoots up. His heart is racing. The door opens slowly, and he stands as you enter, the candlelight glinting off your hair. 

Finally. _Finally._ He wonders if you’ve missed him as much as he’s missed you.

You’re silent as you enter—you do not meet his eyes. You simply step inside, lock the door behind you and cast _Muffliato._

_Gods, she’s so beautiful._

Snape’s black eyes glitter, sweeping over your form in a way he hasn’t let himself since you were last in this room.

“[First name],” he says finally, after what seems like eternity, hearing the raw ache in his own voice.

Your eyes snap up, locking onto him, and Snape feels a slug of dread. You’re furious. Ready to _kill._ His entire body goes rigid—he’s _never_ seen this look in your eyes.

And then your wand is drawn, and you’re coming at him fast, your boots pounding his flagstones, and your wand arm is outstretched, and the hair falls away from your face, and he sees the full force of your fury there—wild, uncontrolled.

Snape manages exactly one step backwards before you move your wand in a furious gesture and center it directly at his forehead.

“ _Legilimens!”_ you scream.

Snape is an experienced Occlumens, which you know. Hence the blitz attack. He doesn’t have a chance to slam his walls into place. And to be fair, your spell is powerful. The images rush him, blinding him.

*

_A dark haired boy of around five sat crouched under a worn vinyl table, playing with a ragged hand puppet—little more than a sock with two button eyes sewn on. He hummed to himself quietly...until a crash resounded from the other room. Severus looked up, eyes wide and worried. Then there was a man’s angry voice, and a SLAP. A woman cried out._

_*_

A swirl of colors, and the memory changes. 

*

_Severus, a few years older, boarded the Hogwarts Express, excitedly speeding toward his first year at school. In one of the compartments, he encountered a blustery boy with glasses and mussed up hair who disparaged Slytherin and proclaimed himself a Gryffindor. When Severus defended his house, the boy and his friend threw debasing, hurtful comments at him until Severus was dragged away by a young girl with red hair and green eyes._

_*_

Why are you reaching back this far? Snape wonders vaguely. What is the point?

*

_Then Severus was a teenager, bony and awkward, dressed in a Black Sabbath t-shirt and ripped jeans. A man forcibly pushed him down a dingy hallway in their family home, yelling, slapping the back of his head. Severus attempted to ignore his father, face stony and dark. He tried to walk away, into his room. Be the bigger person. But the man grabbed Severus’ arm and shook it, then pounded a fist into his stomach. Gasping, furious and hurting, the boy staggered back. And after a moment to collect himself, he reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wand..._

_*_

He didn’t kill his father, though he wanted to. He left him in the hallway, crumpled in a heap, and he didn’t return home until he heard news of his father’s death to cancer a few years later.

The memory dissolves and another forms.

*

_Teenaged Severus was at Hogwarts, walking alone through the corridors. Suddenly, the blustery boy from the Hogwarts Express stepped out of a niche. He’d grown too, tall and strong, and he had three others with him—a handsome boy with dark hair, a boy with scars down his face, and a pudgy, twitchy boy. The black haired teenager told them to leave him alone, told them they didn’t want to fuck with him. They just laughed...and attacked._

_*_

That was one time of many. As the years went by, Snape learned to defend himself. By the time they graduated, he could’ve taken them all at once. And he did.

*

_Teenaged Severus sat in the Slytherin common room, surrounded by a group of friends. They were stone-faced as they listened to him describe the most recent attack by that group of boys. One of them clapped his shoulder, congratulated him on getting a curse off. Another offered to help him practice dueling multiple foes for when they couldn’t be there to help. To his left, a girl around his age with wild blond curls and almond eyes slowly worked on bandaging his injured hand._

_*_

Helena, Avery, Rosier, Mulciber. His friends. His people. The only ones who cared for him...save for Lily, the only one who truly mattered. How foolish he’d been...

*

_A flash of a girl’s face—the red head with the green eyes. She was furious. She was saying, “I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.”_

_*_

Snape chokes at that, pushing the painful memory aside. He’s coming very close to Occluding his mind and forcing you out of it. He can. He’s regained his strength and concentration, and you are not particularly good at Legilimency. 

But as you shuffle through his memories, his fists clench. _She wants it? Let her see it then._

_*_

_Severus was a young man then. He stood in a dark, tree lined field, brow furrowed in anger, head lowered, squaring off with someone before him. He was seething, nearly unhinged as he stared down at the boy crumpled at the base of a wide oak—the blustery kid with glasses, now grown. Severus’ tormenter._

_Severus took two strides toward the boy and aimed his wand violently...then lashed out with brutal force. Red sparks slashed against the blustery boy’s face, one after the other, a flurry of vicious blows. They cracked like whips, sizzled against his skin. Another, then another, then another. There was no rest for the onslaught, and the boy was bruised and bleeding._

_The boy tried to lift his arms to fend it off, and Severus screamed at him, raw and breaking, a wordless sound of pure fury. The strikes came faster and faster, channeling all of his anger, pent up after years of abuse and now released._

_“Ah!” the blustery boy cried, and Severus stopped, wand still pointed, breathing hard. “Alright,” the boy said, stunned and weak and in pain. “Severus. Alright.”_

_“It’s_ Severus _now, is it?” Snape spat back._

_“Just,” said the boy, “please...”_

_“Severus please.” Such scorn in his voice. “Severus please—please_ what? _PLEASE WHAT?” He leaned toward the boy, intent and violent. “Please_ spare _you? Is that what you want, Potter?” He sucked in a shaky breath. “You think that you can hex and curse me all these years, take away the_ one person _that I have ever cared about, and then you think that you can just brush. Me. Off?” He shook his head, sneering. “You have no_ idea _what it is like to be me. You have no_ idea _what it is like TO LOSE SOMETHING!” He screamed the last three words, voice rough._

_The boy, Potter, tried to catch his breath as Severus finally went silent, staring at him. Shaky and in pain, he managed to say, “You’re right. Alright?” And then, in a whisper, “I’m sorry.”_

_Severus leaned back, his face a mix of pain and amusement. He shook his head at Potter, disgusted._

_“Sorry,” Severus said, soft and dangerous. He shook his head again, voice thick with anger and tears. “You’re sorry. Now that I’ve bloodied you up, now that you fear me!” His voice broke, not quite a sob but close. Then, after a long moment of consideration, something cold crossed into his eyes._

_“Well, don’t worry, Potter,” he said. “It won’t last much longer.”_

_“No, Severus, don’t,” Potter rasped, pleading._

_“Good bye, Potter,” Severus replied. And he raised his wand high above his head. “AVADA KA —”_

_A burst of wind stopped him, threw him off balance. Someone just Apparated directly in front of him, directly between him and Potter. The girl with the red hair and green eyes._

_Severus’s expression crumpled into horror and pain._

_*_

It wasn’t his best moment. Probably his worst—up until then, anyway. All those years of torment had culminated in one final fight with the Marauders—a fight Snape had won. But the victory was bitter. That was the last time he saw James Potter. It was also the last time he saw Lily alive.

_*_

_A newspaper clipping. A picture of a happy couple, embracing—the blustery boy and the read headed girl. He, handsome in his black dress robes. She, stunning in a snowy white dress._

**_Wedding Announcement! James Fleamont Potter married Lily Jasmine Evans on October 18th, 1978 during a lovely ceremony at—_ **

_Before the rest of the words came into focus, the paper was crumpled in a white fist. Then it burst into flames. Severus’ broken scream of rage echoed through the room._

_*_

Snape had expected the news, of course. But it didn’t make it any less painful. He is almost glad when the memory fades and is replaced with another.

*

_Severus, only a few months older, followed the girl with wild blond curls and almond eyes down a black corridor._

_“Helena,” he said, straining to catch up. “Tell me what’s going on. Tell me where we are.”_

_She turned to look at him, grinning wildly, then stopped to fold him in her arms and hug tightly._

_“It’s what you wanted,” she whispered. “What we all wanted! Marcos, Evan and I submitted your name, and Lucius and Narcissa vouched for you. Said you’re talented. And...” She caught her breath, beaming. Severus looked pale and excited, his black eyes shining._

_“And?” he asked. “_ And?”

_“The Dark Lord wants to meet you. He may accept you!” She hugged him again, and he was still as stone, shocked. “You’ll be fine. Just think, Sev! All of us, doing this together! Like Evan’s dad and all his friends. We’ll be unstoppable!” She watched his face as the emotions ticked across it—strain, fear, eagerness, hesitance. Her voice lowered, became utterly sincere, and she clasped his hands. “We can’t do it without you, Sev. We need you.”_

_And Severus took a breath and nodded._

_*_

How could he say no? How could he walk away from the only people who loved him? And he would be lying to say he didn’t want it. The Dark Arts had fascinated him since his youth. Their power called to him. At the time, when he was barely more than a child, when his brain was still not fully formed, Severus Snape had truly thought he’d found his purpose.

*

_A wand held against his left arm. A flash of razor pain as black ink squirmed underneath. The skin bubbled and blistered. Looking up, he met inhuman red eyes._

_*_

And for a time, a long time, Snape allows you to flick through his memories of the first war, like so many snapshots. They are incriminating. They are unpleasant. They show his blood-supremacy and his talent for violence. Snape does not want to relive any of them—but he lets you look.

*

_A blizzard on a hill, flashes of light, figures facing off in battle. Severus’ voice: “Sectumsempra!” And streaks of blood across the snow._

_*_

_Running after Lestrange and Avery, watching their cloaks stream behind them. Bellatrix raised her wand, shrieked a curse. Up ahead, a body crumpled._

_*_

_Screaming. On and on, screaming._

_Severus walked quickly down a grand marble hall, going for the source. When he opened the door, he watched a woman float in the center of the room, contorted in pain. A young woman with wild blond hair and almond eyes._

_Helena._

_The man with his wand to her was tall. When he heard Severus enter, he turned and smiled, his red, snake-like eyes alight. Severus forced his expression impassive. The rest of the room was silent. Every face was grim. Their looks said,_ that could be me. 

_Helena did not stop screaming._

_*_

_The Dark Lord’s eyes. His thin mouth, curving into a grin. “Brew me a poison, Severus,” he commanded in that high, cold voice of his._

_*_

_Someone entered the barren chamber in which they gathered, beelining for the parents of Evan Rosier, Severus’ good friend. A cold wash of dread settled over him, watching them whisper together, expressions grim. Then Rosier’s mother crumpled to the ground, sobbing._

_*_

_A pale, terrified face gazed up at him with hope. “Please,” it said. “Please, Severus.” But Severus merely raised his wand._

_“Crucio.”_

_*_

_A different scene. Another pale, pleading face. Severus raised his wand. “Crucio.”_

_*_

_Severus raised his wand. “Crucio.”_

_*_

_Severus raised his wand. He was tired. Exhausted. Desperate to stop. “Crucio.”_

_*_

_The Dark Lord stood before him, congratulating him on his service. Something about a prophecy. Mulciber and Avery were there, his only friends left alive, beaming at him. Severus nodded weakly. He was a husk of himself. He just wanted to stop._

_*_

That was near the end. He hadn’t known how to escape with his life and was too much a coward to try. He resigned himself. Contemplated suicide. But then, too soon, it all came crashing down.

*

_Severus was on a hilltop, forlorn and cold in darkness. Before him stood Albus Dumbledore, tall and powerful. Severus was on his knees. He was asking. Pleading._ Begging.

_“Hide them all, then,” he croaked. “Keep her—them—safe. Please.”_

_Dumbledore watched him. Cold and pitiless. So very unlike his usual demeanor._

_“And what will you give me in return, Severus?” he asked._

_“In—in return?” Severus gaped at him, then immediately promised, “Anything.”_

_*_

The scene dissolves. Another takes its place.

*

_They were in Dumbledore’s office, Severus crumpled forward in a chair, wracked with remorse so profound, it was physical. He stared up at the headmaster, trying to peer through his fog of pain._

_“What—what do you mean?” he asked._

_“You know how and why she died,” Dumbledore replied. “Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily’s son.”_

_“He does not need protection. The Dark Lord has gone—”_

_“The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does.”_

_There was a long pause as Severus gained control of himself. “Very well,” he said finally. “Very well. But never—never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear...especially Potter’s son...I want your word!”_

_“My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?” Dumbledore sighed, finally nodding. “If you insist.”_

_*_

“Enough,” Snape says, finally forcing you from his mind. “Enough.” His long fingers curl over yours on your wand, pushing it gently away from his face.

The look you wear is exactly what he hoped to avoid by keeping this story from you. A mix of pain, pity and horror—an awful, tear-filled look. A wild, bewildered look. You stumble back a step, clutch the desk, then sink into a chair before it.

You turn away from him for a long time, mind churning, chewing your cheeks, a deep furrow between your brows. Cataloguing. Going over what you saw. 

Snape folds his arms defensively across his chest, watching you. He could be angry, he knows—using Legilimency like that is a deep breach of trust. Then again, so was keeping his evil past a secret.

“If it would be helpful,” he says, tone guarded, “I can...fill in the blanks.”

Your eyes snap up to his, streaming tears. “The red-head girl,” you say. “That was Potter’s mom? That boy was his dad?”

Of course, you instantly seize on the most sensitive part. Snape squeezes his eyes shut in pain and finally nods.

“And what,” you say, something hard in your tone, “when you found out You-Know-Who was gonna kill her...you betrayed him?”

“Essentially,” Snape replies. He sighs, leaning against his desk. “Though, as with everything, it is more...complicated than that.”

“Explain.”

Snape pauses, gathering his thoughts. He’s never actually expressed them to another living person before. Dumbledore knows his main reason for betraying the Dark Lord, of course—but the minor reasons? The nuances and complexities? No one knows but him.

“Lily was what made me go to Dumbledore,” he says. “This is true. It didn’t save her.” He halts, fighting a wave of pain. “But almost from the first, what kept me at the Dark Lord’s side was not loyalty. It was fear.” 

You scoff at this, looking away from him. Snape nods. It’s not a satisfying explanation. No explanation would be. It’s up to you whether you forgive him for it.

“My father hated me,” he continues. “My mother neglected me. I have a talent for making enemies—people tend to dislike me instantly, because I am not warm or open or even _polite_.” Snape sighs. “I understand this now—accept it, even cultivate it. But my childhood was...difficult. I did not know what was so wrong about me. Why I was hated. Targeted. I understand now—but I didn’t then.”

“Lots of people get bullied,” you say acerbically. “And they don’t become—”

“I _know,_ [First name],” Snape interrupts. His look softens as you glare. “I know. This is not an excuse. None of this is an excuse.” He sighs. “May I go on?”

You nod stiffly.

“The only people who accepted me were my Slytherin friends,” he says. “And, admittedly, I chose wrong. I folded myself into a group of pureblood aristocrats. Children of old families. Families with warped beliefs. _Evil_ in their blood. But they were the first taste I ever had of unconditional love. Besides...besides Lily.” He forces her name out. 

Your look darkens, cast to the side. But you have to see his depth of love for Lily. He won’t apologize for it. It is, as Dumbledore said, the best part of him.

“They warped me,” Snape says. “I shielded myself behind them. Protected myself. Even started believing some of their hate and prejudice.” He shakes his head, scoffing at himself. “My father was a Muggle, and one of the most vicious creatures I’d ever met. What other evidence did I need?”

You scoff too, but at least you’re looking at him. Maybe you’re starting to understand.

“But it was never really about blood supremacy,” Snape continues. “It was about my friends. And as you saw—by the time I realized that _they_ were the monsters, I was in far too deep. The Dark Lord would have slaughtered me, had I not guarded my mind and showered him with my loyalty. But in truth, [First name], long before Lily died—I was tired. I was sorry. And I still am.”

Snape approaches you slowly, waiting for you to bolt. When you don’t—when you remain still, watching him carefully—he kneels before you and gently takes your hands. You let him, though your fingers are tense.

“Please,” he says. “Please believe me. I hold none of the prejudices I used to. I regret my past, and this damned tattoo, more than I could ever express. I have changed. I am no longer the stupid, short-sighted boy I was at eighteen. I have been shown how _wrong_ , how _evil_ that boy was. By Dumbledore. And by Lily.” He stares into your eyes, trying to convey the deep truth of his words. Things he’s never said to anyone. _Anyone_. “I don’t accept myself. I don’t forgive myself. And I don’t expect you to accept or forgive me, either. But I want you to believe that I have changed. Because if you didn’t, [First name]...” He shakes his head. “It would be another thing I couldn’t forgive myself for.”

There is a long, long silence. An eternal silence. You search his black eyes, intense, your mouth still pressed tight. You look like you’re gazing into his very soul.

And just when he thinks he can’t go on, that he’ll die here at your feet, cast down by the marble stare of a merciless goddess...

Your beautiful eyes fill with tears. And you say three words: 

“I believe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Do you agree with me? Is this how you see Snape's past? Or do you think different? Let’s have a conversation.
> 
> Remember that I love you.


	31. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruh roh. I wrote and rewrote this chapter a...couple times. I really wrestled with what should happen.
> 
> But in the end, angst won out. This chapter's full of it. Perhaps now you will come to see that the welcoming atmosphere I foster in these posts is no more than a ruse, and that I am in fact evil! Mwahaha and all that.
> 
> Anyway please don't hate me.

* * *

_We fight every night for something.  
_ _When the sun sets, we're both the same:  
_ _Half in the shadows,  
_ _Half burned in flames.  
_ _We can't look back for nothin'.  
_ _Take what you need, say your goodbyes.  
_ _I gave you everything,  
_ _And it’s a beautiful crime._

"Beautiful Crime" - Tamer

* * *

“I believe you.”

Severus is staring at you. He’s kneeling on the ground and staring at you, and there’s such hope in his black eyes that it breaks your heart all over.

Neither of you will like what comes next. Yes, you saw his past. And yes, he opened up more than he ever has before. And yes, you really, really do believe that he has changed and that he regrets what he did during the war. That's why you said it. You believe his story.

But the fact remains—he still lied. He still hid this from you. He refused to let you in, and you had to _force_ the truth from him. You caught him red handed, in a way. Who knows how much longer he would have kept it from you? Would he _ever_ have told you?

So now, with his entire tragic, awful story in your head...now you’re more confused than ever.

“[First name],” Severus says gently, leaning down to kiss your hands. “Thank you.” You sniff, trying not to cry, but it doesn’t help when he reaches up and wipes away a tear with his thumb, his broad hand cupping your face. “I’ll make this up to you. I’ll burn it away, I swear.”

He reaches up to kiss you...and you have to pull back. You don't blame him, of course--there's tenderness in your eyes, and he must read that as absolution. But it's not. Your breathing hitches, a half formed sob rising as you slowly shake your head.

He freezes, shock and gut-acceptance warring on his features before he leans back to sit on his calves. You hitch again at his expression of pain, then reach out to touch his face as tears start to roll freely down your cheeks. His eyes meet yours quickly, and you hate it. You know what you’re about to do—what you have to do—and the hope in his eyes makes it so hard.

“Oh...” you say, wishing you had a different answer for him. You watch his black eyes as the hope slowly fades to confusion, then to guardedness. 

“[First name]...” he whispers, voice breaking. He understands already. He knows what is coming.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tenderly stroking his hair back from his forehead. A flash of disappointment in those black eyes, then a sadness all his own—as though you’ve broken him. And of course you have. He’s had more than his share of rejection.

But you have to do this. For yourself. You can’t simply and immediately forgive him for _his_ sake.

“Thank you for telling me all of that,” you say, and Severus flinches, watching you with what you can only describe as betrayal. Well, that’s fine. You’ve both betrayed each other tonight. That’s why you have to do this. “I appreciate it, I really do.”

“You _appreciate_ it,” Severus spits, and you can see the anger growing. _After all that,_ you imagine him thinking, _she’s still punishing me._

“This isn’t a punishment,” you explain, wanting him to understand your position. “I’m not trying to, like, teach you a lesson or something.”

“Why, then, does it feel that way?” Severus asks, venom in his voice. He shakes his head, then pushes off the ground and paces over to lean against his desk. You watch the way his slender body curves over on itself, guarding itself. He’s exhausted. You are too.

“I accept you,” you say. “And I believe you. I’ve seen enough to know that you’ve changed. This isn’t a rejection, this—”

“Not a rejection.” He laughs bitterly. “What is it, then?”

“I need time,” you say. “More time. I—you gave me a lot to think about.”

“You _asked_ for it,” Severus says harshly. _“Demanded_ it. _Forced_ it, [First name], and if you weren’t prepared for it—”

You stand from your chair, his anger making you angry in return. You understand it, of course you do—you’d be angry too, if you were him. You both injured each other tonight, pushed and pulled and drove your knives in deep. But you think he should swallow that and still be begging forgiveness.

“I had no idea what to _prepare_ for,” you shoot back. “Because _you_ wouldn’t tell me. That’s what got us into this mess in the first place, Severus, or did you forget?” You stare at him, breathing heavily. He simply watches you, at a loss for words. 

“I accept your past,” you continue after a long moment. “I know you, Sev. I know you’re not a bad person.” He scoffs, looking away. “Even if you won’t show it. I believe that. I believe in you.” You sigh. “But you lied to me. For _months.”_ Your breath hitches again, and you wish it wouldn’t. “How much longer would you have kept me in the dark?” You shake your head. “Your past isn’t the reason I have to do this. It’s those lies.”

“I am _sorry,”_ Severus says desperately, staring into your eyes. “I was in an impossible position and I...” He shakes his head. “I am _sorry._ I don’t know how to make this better.”

“I know,” you say. “And I’m trying to forgive, I just—” You look around desperately for some way to explain, then simply shake your head and give him the punchline. “This isn’t the end,” you say. 

His eyes snap onto you again, and the hope is back. “Not the end.”

“No,” you say, almost laughing through your tears. “God, Sev, I...” _love you, I love you, I’m in love with you, of course I couldn’t leave you..._ “I care about you so much. And I want to be with you. That hasn’t changed...”

“Then why are you doing this?” Severus asks. He strides toward you, reaching out. “Stop torturing us both and let it go back to how it was. I can tell you everything you want, _everything._ Or nothing—we could simply forget it. Whatever you want, [First name], please.”

“I just need time,” you say firmly, side-stepping him. Because you can’t make this decision here and now. It’s not fair to either of you. “I need to decide if I can...if this will work.”

Something cold crosses into his eyes, a look you’ve seen before, and he leans away from you, folding his arms. Frosting over.

“Of course you do,” he drawls in something close to the voice he uses in class. Then his black eyes dart away from you, and he turns back to his desk. He sags against it, braced by both hands, and squeezes his eyes closed. “Of course you do,” he repeats in a whisper.

“I’m sorry, Sev,” you say. “I just need to think.”

“Do let me know when you’ve reached a decision,” he says, voice icy. He shakes his head, sneering at the opposite wall. “Perhaps you could forcibly access my memories again, to help you make up your mind.”

Well, there it is. You clench your teeth, affronted. “I’ll only need to if you tell more _lies,”_ you reply.

Frigid silence rings between you for a long moment. Then, finally, you sigh and walk toward the door.

“Just remember,” you say, hand on the knob, “the lies are what this is about.” You open the door and begin to step out. He’s still not turning to look at you. “I accept you as you are. Your past, everything. I just need time to work my own head out.” You sigh when he remains silent. “I hope you can understand that.”

You leave, closing the door behind you, tears still streaming down your face.

* * *

And so, for the second time in as many weeks, Snape has no choice but to give you “time to think.” It is torture, but not as terrible as the first time. Because now, Snape is sure with 100% conviction what your answer will be when you return to give it to him.

You will leave him, of course. How could you not? Relationships are built on trust, and he shattered yours with months of withholding. Then you shattered his by using Legilimency. It’s not your fault that he is willing to forgive you for it—that he still trusts you instinctively despite it. Because at the end of the day, here is the simple truth—you do not have nearly as many red flags as Severus Snape does.

He spends the following day scrubbing the back of his office door—he smashed quite a few specimens against it after you left, taking out his rage on glass jars and formaldehyde. After a lifetime of rejections, you’d think he’d be good at it. You’d think he’d learn to cope. And he really thought he had.

But this... _you..._ this hurts worse than he thought it would. It shatters him. He doesn’t get out of bed for most of the weekend, and only forces himself out on Monday morning because of class.

He wants to think, _who cares? She’s just a girl, hardly more than a child. Not all that wonderful. I was blinded by her because she is beautiful, and I have been without romance for so long. It was easy to get swept up in her. And it will be easy to let her go._

But Snape can tell when he’s lying to himself. The two of you are extremely compatible, and before Monday even rolls around, he is missing your company. You’ve grown so close. For the first time, he has to admit to himself that he considers you a true _friend,_ not just a lover. His _only_ friend, actually, besides Dumbledore. It’s not just your body and your lips, it never has been. It’s your mind that bewitches him.

He can’t deny that, because doing so would be delusional. So he can only wait...and hope you forgive him.

Monday during Potions class, Snape keeps himself from looking at you. It’s worked before, and it works now. You and Zabini are still locked in stoney silence, but Malkovich chatters in your ear while you work on your potions. You are looking drawn and pale, perhaps close to tears, barely cracking a smile. Your eyes meet Snape’s only once, and you quickly look away. Which he does not think bodes well.

He grits his teeth through the rest of the lecture, feeling anger and dread sink into his marrow. You didn’t wake up in a more forgiving mood, then. The weekend was not enough “time to think.” And he can’t imagine even more days spent dwelling on his lies will help his case.

Snape is in a foul temper by the time his students file out of class, and he sits behind his desk, determined to focus on grading papers but not getting very far. In fact, he only gets through a couple before an entire hour has passed. He glances up at the clock—nearly four. He assumes you won’t be coming in to do Felix maintenance.

Rising to his feet, he strides toward his personal lab, relieved to have something to do with his hands. He’s about halfway there when he hears a key jiggle in the lock, and he freezes in place. He doesn’t want to feel hopeful. But he can’t help it.

He stands, tense and unmoving, as you step in the door. He’s sure his face is very grim—he feels the furrow between his brows and the frown pull at the corners of his lips—and you falter a second when you see him. But then you close the door behind you. You don’t lock it, he notices. No _Muffliato_ today, either. Though what that means, he’s not sure.

You stare at each other for a long, agonizing moment, while Snape reaches desperately for something to say. He’s afraid if he simply speaks your name, it will come out as a plea. And that feels so weak.

“Hi,” you say after another beat, clearly feeling awkward. 

“Hello,” he replies, watching you bite the insides of your cheeks nervously. He’s not used to this—you’re usually so confident. It’s uncomfortable. And is this what it’s going to be like, then? You won’t even be able to hold conversations with each other anymore? Snape feels a rush of something like mourning—hopefully preemptive, but he’s beginning to doubt that.

“I’m just...” You start to try to slide past him toward the potion, and he steps back to let you, certain you do not want to touch him. “I’m just here for Felix maintenance.”

Snape quirks an eyebrow, surprised. He assumed you’d be abandoning that duty. He doesn’t want to read into it...but it seems auspicious, doesn’t it?

“Are you,” he replies, watching you head to the lab. You shrug, positioning yourself at the cauldron with your back to him. He steps back to lean against his desk, giving you space.

“Unless you don’t want me to,” you say, and Snape shakes his head.

“You know that isn’t the case,” he says quietly. “I’m just surprised.”

You sigh, setting down the stirring rod without beginning work on the potion, and you turn to face him. “I haven’t decided anything,” you tell him. “I just...I mean, I’ll still do my work. I’m not just going to leave you in the lurch.”

Leave him in the lurch. Quite the turn of phrase for someone torturing him the way you are. Snape knows, with absolute conviction, that you’ve already made your decision. You’re simply working up the nerve to tell him.

“Perhaps you should get started, then,” Snape replies coldly, steeling himself against the pain. You stare at him, clearly affronted, for a long moment. Perhaps annoyed that _he_ is angry with _you._ But it’s hard not to be. You are making him suffer.

Snape turns away from you to sweep back around his desk, and you turn from him to focus on the Felix. It's quiet for a long time as you complete the maintenance steps. 

When you are finally finished, and you jot down notes in the journal beside you, you sigh and turn back around. Snape glances up to you, face still hard.

“Listen,” you say, taking a few steps toward him, causing his pulse to flutter. “I know this—”

You’re interrupted suddenly by a solid rapping at the door, which makes you jump and turn toward it. Snape follows your gaze, irritated, as none other than Mad-Eye bloody Moody enters (without an invitation). Fantastic. As if the day could get any better.

“Snape,” he barks roughly. “This little meeting is long overdue.” 

Snape sends him a flat look, knowing he’s right, and silently congratulating himself. He put Mad-Eye off for an entire term, after all. “And what meeting is that?” he asks.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Moody growls, his magical eye rolling all over the room—only to come to a stop when he notices you standing there.

“As you can see,” Snape says flatly, “I’m rather busy at the moment.”

Moody turns to regard you, his normal eye flicking up and down your form. Snape watches you get uncomfortable under the ex-Auror’s attention, and it makes him want to jump immediately to your defense.

“[Last name], isn’t it?” Moody growls. “Exchange student. The American one.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply.

“You were just on your way out, weren’t you?” Moody says. You glance at Snape, who rolls his eyes. There’s no use arguing—the old man has him cornered.

“Uh, sure,” you say, pursing your lips to show your irritation. Moody’s normal eye stays on Snape, but his magical one follows you as you move toward the door. “See you later, then, professor,” you say, making a half-hearted salute at Snape. He nods once as you leave, closing the door behind you. Then he sighs, leaning back in his chair.

“What is it, Mad-Eye?” he asks, not attempting to conceal the hostility in his tone. Moody rocks back and forth on his stump leg, grinning somewhat nastily. 

“I’m here to search your office.”

* * *

You’re spiraling. Sinking into an abyss of confusion and heartache and cyclical thoughts. Every time you feel like you’re coming to a decision, you remember something else Severus said. Some other aspect of his memories. Another lie he told or another emotion he instilled in you. Because even though you accept him and you believe he has changed, his past is still a hard pill to swallow. And his lies make it difficult to trust him.

But when you start getting mad again, you’ll remember how he kisses you, how he makes you laugh, how brilliant he is, how much you enjoy his company. How safe he makes you feel. 

The fact that you’re in love with him.

That thought, when you first had it, was something of a shock. It rocked you, actually, even as you knew it was true. But in the days since, you’ve come to terms with it. You’re in love with Severus—of course you are. But it doesn’t make anything easier. In fact, you worry it blinds you to what you should really do.

Because you think you know what that is. The smart thing would be to end this, wouldn't it? You’re not good for each other. It is unethical, and it could ruin you both. And what else is he hiding? What other lies has he told?

But you’re in love with him. Aye, there’s the rub.

The days blend together. You go through the motions, dragging yourself along, feeling heavy and tired and close to tears at any moment. It feels like hell—living hell. And you know all you have to do to end it is go speak to him, but you can’t. You’re still too conflicted.

You do Felix maintenance every day, but he is never in the office. He can’t stand to be around you, of that much you’re certain. And you can’t blame him.

Classes go by as usual. You don’t speak to Severus or make eye contact unless absolutely necessary. Colin notices your mood and seems at a loss, since you won’t tell him what’s bothering you. You end up cutting yourself off from him a bit. Not ending your friendship, of course not, just not spending as much time around him. No need to drag everyone down.

You spend your time alone instead, dwelling. Shedding quite a few tears. Barely paying attention to academics. Finding yourself staring off into the distance and just thinking. Just... _thinking._

On Thursday, you head down to Felix maintenance, expecting to find an empty office yet again. However, when you enter, there he is, seated behind his desk. It halts you in your tracks for a split second, and your heart is suddenly pounding. Then you remember to nod, and you head over to the potion lab.

As usual, he lets you complete the steps and waits until you’re jotting notes down in the ledger beside it before he approaches you. But when you turn around, he's leaning in the doorway to the lab, blocking your only exit. 

His face is hard and conflicted, and he examines you silently for a long moment. You meet his eye, letting the silence drag on. Letting him watch you. And then you shake your head.

“I still haven’t made up my mind, Sev,” you say. 

The words are barely out of your mouth before he moves, lunging forward to grab your upper arm. It’s not hard or, god forbid, painful, but it is determined. His face is pale, his broad mouth a thin line, and he meets your eyes intently.

“Just end it, [First name],” he demands.

You pull away from him, staring, your heart sinking. “What?”

“End it,” he repeats, enunciating every letter. His eyes search yours. “Get me out of this hell.”

“Is that what you want?” you ask, trying to pretend he didn’t just steal the breath from you.

“It would be better than _this,”_ he hisses. “This _torture._ Waiting for the inevitable.”

“Inevitable,” you whisper, feeling your eyes fill with tears. He flinches back at your expression, mirroring your pain with pain of his own. “You’ve decided it’s inevitable, then.”

“Isn’t it?” he asks, voice breaking. He turns away, shaking his head, passing a long fingered hand over his face. He’s silent for a long moment, staring at the ground. Then his eyes flick toward you. “So just release us,” he whispers. “Release us both.”

The sob hits you hard, surprising you, wracking your body, and you slap a hand to your mouth to prevent yourself from crying out in pain. 

_Release us both._

He’s asking... _begging_ you to end it. To sever the two of you from what he calls _torture._ Your relationship is _torture_ to him.

You can’t form words. You simply stare at him, tears rolling down your cheeks, watching him wait for an answer. His face is inscrutable, and the pain is overwhelming. He’s surrendered. He would prefer it to end rather than to keep fighting for it. It says so much about his feelings toward you. The dark inkling that he does not love you back is confirmed.

Because _you_ would fight for this. And you have. You fought for it before you were even together, and ever since, you’ve been fighting for it. Fighting to trust him and understand him and love him.

But him? He would prefer to just _give up._

You have to get out. You can’t be here. Numbly, you feel yourself walking toward the door, and Severus does not even turn to watch you. He just stares at the floor, shoulders slumped, body defensively hunched over on itself. You pick up the pace, jogging then running, flying through the door and into the dark hallway beyond.

You gasp aloud once you slam the door behind you, unable to help the cry that escapes your lips as heaving, agonizing sobs start to wrack your body. In two seconds back there, he robbed the power from you. Punished you in turn. Made the choice for you both.

And now it’s over. Really over.

You’re running, flying down the corridors, tears streaming down your cheeks. You can’t go back to the common room—it’s only an hour after class, and it will be full of students. You can’t be around anyone else right now. You pull the hood of your cloak up over your head, hoping to disguise your red and tear-streaked face, and you run.

Using back passages and barely used stairwells, you make your way upstairs. Every time you hear voices, you turn in the opposite direction. You need a place, somewhere lonely and empty and dark, in which to ride out the rest of this horrible pain. You think first of the southern tower, but of course you can’t go _there,_ not with its books and blankets and smell of _him._ So _where?_

Up, then up, then up. That’s the plan, your only plan. As far from the dungeons as you can get.

You mostly keep out sight, though you do have to skirt around a crowded corridor on the third floor, where you spot a few familiar faces. Fred and George are there, laughing with their friends, which only makes the pain worse, and George looks up as you disappear around the next corner, but you don’t think he saw you.

You keep running away from it all, taking every staircase you come across, until you're lost in the upper floors of the castle. Turning corridor after corridor, relieved to find them empty, you finally find an arched stone doorway and a set of spiral stairs beyond. You slow, breathing heavily, wondering where you are. Then you clutch the railing and head up.

You come out into the Astronomy Tower. You’ve done it, then. The highest point in Hogwarts castle, as far from Severus Snape as you can get.

The early February sun is setting, casting the large round room in orange light, and you pause for a moment, forgetting to cry as you take in the view. It’s utterly quiet up here, utterly peaceful. The entire tower is lined with balcony railings, and at the center is a gigantic contraption, some wizarding mix of a telescope and an astrolabe.

You brush your fingers along its bronze surface as you pass to the balcony. There, you gaze out to the Hogwarts grounds. And memories of Severus come flooding back.

You sink to your knees as the tears come again, allowing yourself to drop into the dark well of sadness in a true way, in a way you’ve been putting off all week. 

Over. It’s over. It’s over.

_Release us both._

You sob aloud, burying your face in your hands. And you just cry, needing it, needing this weakness after this long and horrible week. Letting everything come out—your grief and regret, your guilt, your sadness over Severus’ past and the untethering of your bonds, Benji’s absence, George’s absence. The tears won’t help any of it, you know that, but somehow you hope they will.

For a long time, as the sun dips behind the horizon and the moon drifts gently into the black blanket of night, you let yourself cry.

“[First name]?”

Gasping, you look up, turning toward the voice that came from the shadows, trying desperately to wipe the tears away with your sleeve.

“Who’s — who’s there?” you choke, hating the tremble in your voice, the weakness there.

A movement in the darkness, and a tall figure comes toward you, into the light of the rising moon. And with his coming, another rush of pain and regret fills you, and you can’t help yet another sob escape from your chest.

“George,” you say weakly, not sure if you’re pleased or horrified to see him. He sinks to his knees beside you, concern etched into every line of his face. 

You pause, confused, when he reaches forward to brush your tangled hair from your face with one broad hand. Isn’t he still mad at you? Why is he here? Did he follow you? _Why?_ To berate you again? To remind you how awful you are?

He searches your tear-filled eyes for a long time, grim and concerned, no hint of a smile around those broad, full lips. You’ve rarely seen him this serious, and it brings such a rush of comfort, of true and deep affection, that your breath hitches in your chest.

George’s mouth opens to speak, to say something, ask questions you don’t want to answer. But you don’t give him the chance.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, feeling the tears come harder as they often do when a friend offers comfort. “George, I’m so, so sorry. I never wanted to lie to you. I didn’t—and you hate me now. You hate me, and I understand, I understand why, of course you hate me. But please don’t, I can’t stand it. I never meant to hurt you—you mean so much to me.” You sob again. “I can’t stand it!”

Confusion steals across George’s face, which softens into sadness. “[First name]...” he says softly.

“I’m sorry!” you say, burying your head in your arms to avoid his gaze. Another wave hits, a torrent of sadness, and you spiral into it. God, you hate this. This despair and regret, it’s overwhelming and agonizing, drowning you, and you can’t seem to keep your head above water. The stress of everything since coming to Hogwarts, since getting that expulsion letter from Salem...everything is welling up and you can’t stop it.

You hear him speak, so low and calm, you almost can’t believe it for a moment. “I was a git,” he says.

George’s hands are on your face, and he’s lifting your head so you’re looking at him, staring into his brown eyes. There’s affection there, warmth, and it’s such a _relief,_ a life raft thrown out into stormy waters. And then his eyes are closer, and arms wrap around you, and he cradles you to his chest, crushes you there, your hearts beating together, and you give yourself to his warmth, needing it, feeling like it’s the only thing that can save you from this pain.

And then he’s leaning down, and his full lips brush against your cheekbone, kissing away salty tears, and you don’t stop him. You don’t stop him as his mouth moves lower, skimming along your jaw, moving toward your lips.

And suddenly you’re kissing him. You’re kissing George Weasley, his lips full and soft, slightly chapped, and he tastes like candy and mint, and he’s so warm and he smells _so good._ Your mouths open against each other, and his breath goes heavy, rapid, as you slide your tongue against his, a red flush coloring his cheeks. He grips your face between his hands, and you cling to his neck, pulling him against you. Needing him. Needing this.

You fist a hand in his soft red hair and cling, tears still running down your cheeks. The kiss slowly winds itself up--languid licks and caresses get more rapid, more frequent, and you move and squirm together until George is all you can feel and see and taste. He's holding you close, crushing you to him, and your lips are somehow frantic, a messy tangle of tongues, and you know that it feels good, so much better than crying, but you really don’t know what you’re doing. 

What are you doing? 

He shifts against you, his hands sliding down to run along your body, quick and curious, and you do the same, reaching up to his collar, pulling aside his red tie, popping apart the buttons to explore his warm skin. 

He’s surprisingly muscular, his shoulders roped and coiled with strength gained from countless hours on the Quidditch field. You tug his shirt away from his body, revelling in his hot skin, how different he feels from Severus. How easily he lets you undress him. No battle scars, no Dark Mark to hide. You run your hands over his defined biceps, his smooth chest, and you feel him groan into your mouth, goosebumps prickling under your fingers.

He shifts, pushing you backwards until you’re on the ground beneath him, his thighs between yours, bracing under your legs as you open them for him. And his hands—rough and large, square-tipped fingers and so _warm—_ they run over you without a hint of abashment, reading your acceptance, returning it. No hesitance, the way there was the first time Severus touched you. Nor is there his authoritative dominance. George is careful, clearly wanting but simultaneously searching for reciprocation. And unrefined, purposeless. A little clumsy as he feels your breasts, clutches your hip bones.

 _A boy,_ that dark voice hisses at the back of your head. _A teenaged boy. A boy my age. Actually, a boy a bit_ younger _than me._

What are you doing?

George covers your body with his—and god, you can’t get over how _warm_ he is, like a furnace, so flushed and tinged red and _wanton_ somehow, nothing like Severus, pale and controlled and calculating. His shirt is fully unbuttoned, and his mouth moves against yours, lush and wet, unrefined. Desperate smacking noises fill the quiet night air, the noises of a first kiss, a kiss that has gone too far, too fast and is only speeding up. His hands move under your shirt, burning against the taught skin of your abdomen, eagerly reaching to pull your bra down, and you arch against him, wrap your legs around him, bring his hips firmly into contact with yours.

He groans again, panting, rutting back, exploring every inch of skin he can reach, and you feel his muscular thighs beneath yours, feel the eagerness with which he presses against you and touches you and kisses you, and a horrible question springs to mind. _Is he a virgin?_

No way. No way, right? He doesn't kiss like he's a virgin. He doesn't press against you like one, or touch you like one either.

But _is he?_

You’re only two years older than him, still a teenager yourself, and you know he’s over the age of consent, but something about George Weasley feels so much younger than you. He’s still a boy. _A boy._

And while we’re thinking clearly for a fucking second here, _what the actual_ **_fuck_ ** _are you doing??_

You gasp against him, stopping the kiss in its tracks, and hurriedly scramble back. George freezes, looking shocked, perhaps even scared. He rears upright on his knees as you sit up, cursing yourself, _hating_ yourself. 

“I’m sorry,” you say breathlessly, tugging your shirt down, running a hand through your hair.

“What?” he asks, looking wild, confused. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, putting a hand to your swollen lips and trying to get to your feet. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

George reaches out and grabs your hand as you straighten, looking bewildered and hurt and scared. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

It breaks you. As if _he’s_ the villain here. Your chest aches, and you sob, feeling the tears start flowing again as if they never stopped.

“No,” you tell him, reaching down to cup his face, only thinking _Severus. Severus, oh god,_ Severus. “No, George, you didn’t—” Your breath hitches, and you bring your hand to your mouth, biting back a wail. “It’s me, I can’t—” you gasp. “I’m so sorry, George—I can’t.”

“[First name], wait,” he says, reaching out to you, long legs sprawled on the ground, his uniform shirt still gaping open over his chest. 

But you’re already walking away, jogging away, _running_ away as the tears begin to spill down your cheeks. You know you’re leaving him confused and sad and probably angry, and it’s unfair, and you’re awful for it, you really are. You’re a bad person.

But as you leave the Astronomy Tower and head once more toward the dungeons, all you’re thinking is, _Severus. Severus. Severus._


	32. Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hereby call to order this meeting of the Sad Bitch Club. On today's agenda: how to guilt WitchImage into posting early, even though she thoroughly enjoys our suffering, and it hasn't evEN BEEN 24 HOURS.
> 
> JK I love you all so much. But this is gonna be slightly short. That's what you get for being so demanding.
> 
> So I take it you liked the last chapter? The response was insane and honestly fucking hilarious. You're all so great. I'm rushing this out in thanks. You sound like you all need a little aftercare.
> 
> That's not to say there isn't more angst here. There is. And wtf are we gonna do about the George situation? 
> 
> Also, Snape-apologist WitchImage is back with a vengeance, and yet again, I am not sorry. I'm not sorry for any of it, and I never will be.
> 
> Wishin I could hug you, my babies.

* * *

_ I'm afraid of all I am.  
_ _ My mind feels like a foreign land,  
_ _ Silence ringing inside my head.  
_ _ Please, carry me, carry me, carry me home _

“Arcade” - Duncan Laurence

* * *

Snape slouches behind his desk, elbows planted on the surface, long fingers pushed against his aching forehead. His eyes have been closed for a while, curtains of dark hair falling in front of them. 

_ Your _ eyes won’t let him go. The pain in them, the way they filled with tears.

Has he destroyed everything?

He truly thought it was destroyed already. He simply wanted to push you into giving the answer he assumed you’d already decided on. But your reaction made him think he was wrong.

Snape groans, massaging his temples, gritting his teeth against the pain. If you really were as conflicted as you said—if you truly just needed “time to think”—then he made a rather spectacular mess of it, didn’t he? He’s aware of how it must have seemed to you. A rejection of his own.

_ It’s better this way. _

He just wishes it didn’t hurt.

He dwells on it for a long time, running things over in his head, thinking of a thousand different scenarios in which it could have gone another way. Why does he alway seem to invite the worst possibilities? It’s a fucking  _ talent. _

He’s leaned over his desk, one heel of each hand on either temple, pressing and massaging. Anything to get rid of this bloody headache. His teeth are gritted, his eyes squeezed closed. He wishes for darkness and the easy peace of sleep, for nothingness, but he knows it won’t come tonight. And he dreads the nightmares.

At that moment, his office door bursts open. Snape looks up, bleary and confused, expecting another teacher—perhaps Mad-Eye here to search his quarters again (that was extremely fun, one of the best experiences he’s ever had at Hogwarts, in fact). He accepts the possibility with heavy resignation.

But instead...there you are. Snape straightens slowly, as if by moving too fast he will dispel this hallucination. You’re in his doorway, and you’re all ruffled, hair everywhere, uniform wrinkled and oddly bunched. Your face is red, your lips as swollen as your eyes, which are still streaming tears. 

Snape stands, regarding you warily. It’s only been an hour, perhaps two, since you stormed away before. What are you doing here?

You stride toward him, looking wild and sad, leaving the door hanging open behind you. He opens his mouth to say something—your name, perhaps, or a question.

“I’m sorry,” you say, before he has a chance. Your voice wavers, and tears leak from your eyes. You sound undone. 

You approach him quickly, and he doesn’t understand what’s happening, but suddenly you’re in his arms, pressing warm against him, burying your face into his chest. He hears you hitch, then sob. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, and you pull back to look up into his face, holding it between your small, soft hands. “I forgive you, Sev, and I’m so sorry.” 

Snape feels his mouth fall open. What the hell happened? What kind of mental gymnastics did you perform to get  _ here?  _

But you’re not explaining. You’re just reaching up to kiss him, and he lets you, though for a moment his lips are unmoving. Then he leans back, and you jump away from him as if burnt, realizing you crossed a line.

“What—” Snape clears his throat, staring at you as you gather yourself and take a few steps away. “What happened?”

Your face falls, and his fears are confirmed. Something did happen, then. Something big enough to make up your mind and come back to him. Not only that, but  _ apologize.  _ After all that,  _ you _ are apologizing to  _ him! _

And he’s not complaining—and perhaps he shouldn’t look this gift horse in its mouth—but he needs to know  _ why. _ Because the way you look...it was something significant.

You pull away from him, and Snape regrets the question. You’re composing yourself, and he much prefers it—he dislikes seeing you cry. It’s not something he’s used to, strong willed and stubborn as you are, and it’s uncomfortable.

You turn away from him, wrapping your arms around yourself. And you whisper the next three words: “George fucking Weasley.”

A split second of confusion, then a rush of dread. Snape stands stock still, staring, and takes a long moment to get his mouth to work. “Did he hurt you?” 

You chuckle, looking back at him, almost smiling through your tears. “Of course not,” you say. And your eyes drop away from him. “He kissed me.”

That pit of dread deepens, filling slowly with anger. Snape sneers. “Kissed you,” he hisses, voice deadly soft. He wonders if you’re simply trying to hurt him by telling him this. He wants to return the favor. “That didn’t take long,” he muses, body completely rigid and immobile. “Barely an hour since our last conversation.”

“I didn’t go looking for him,” you snap, turning to him fully, and he’s relieved in the face of your anger. He can deal with that; he’s good at battles, not tears. “He found me. And I put a stop to it, because—” You cut yourself off, seeming to realize you’re giving him too much.

Snape watches you for a long, silent moment. Jealousy and hope war inside of him, and he hates both feelings with equal intensity. You’re looking at the floor, sheepish, the last of your tears drying against your cheeks. And it doesn’t seem like you’re going to continue.

“Because?” he prompts, nearly a whisper. He needs to hear you say it, or it’s not real. 

Your eyes flick up to meet his, a miserable pout tugging down the corners of your mouth.  “Because,” you say, taking a deep breath, “you’re the only person I want to kiss.” Your eye contact is steady and unflinching, and he forces himself to return it. “I knew that already, I think, but George just confirmed it. So...” You inhale again, straightening your shoulders. “So fuck this being at an end. Fuck  _ releasing _ us, Sev. I want this.” 

Snape can’t find words. He just stares at you, expression intense, not sure how to show you what he’s feeling at the prospect. The mix of joy and surprise and foreboding he feels at your confession. Wanting to embrace your feelings and simultaneously wanting to shove them away. This is not smart, you both know that. You should have left it as it was. There is such a long road ahead—so much trust to build, so many words to share. He’s dreading it and looking forward to it, all at once, and he wonders how the hell you can invoke that in him. You are the most wonderful, terrible thing. You damnable girl.

He finally gets his mouth to work, though barely. “I want this, too,” he replies. And you smile.

So in the end, thank the gods for George Fucking Weasley.

* * *

You talk for a long time after that. He shares pieces of his past with you, his struggles, his hatred and rage and deep, deep regret. He seems determined, now that the damage has been done, to help you understand. Your betrayals, while unfair, were the catalysts he needed to open up. He’s trying to forgive you for them, you can tell—and he is significantly more upset about the kiss with George than the Legilimency. It is not an easy night for either of you. You cry a lot, and you yell a lot, and you ask him endless questions. 

He tells you of the years since the Dark Lord fell, how his relationship with Dumbledore caused other ex-Death Eaters to view him with suspicion. How he was exiled from their ranks, not that he regrets it, but nor can he walk happily among those who fought against them. He is an outsider now, permanently gray, and he seems to accept it as his fate. No one trusts him. And as much as it frustrates him, he understands. He will spend the rest of his life atoning for what he did during the war.

He tells you of Dumbledore, the only one who believes in him, the only one willing to give him a second chance. He tells you of the many trials and tribulations he went through to earn his trust. His loyalty toward the headmaster is unparalleled, and you can see why. He not only saved Severus from himself, he is the father figure he never had. Perhaps, you think (though you do not say this) this was also the way the Dark Lord felt to him when he was a teenager. You can understand, having your own version of the absent father, how deep that drive goes, to fill the hole he left behind. Thank god Severus got it right the second time—Dumbledore is obviously a healthier mentor than a prejudiced, insane megalomaniac.

When talk turns to the Potters, you catch Severus’ look of pain. This is a deep wound for him, and it will always be open. He tells you of James, the golden boy with the streak of true cruelty in him. Severus was not the only kid at Hogwarts who feared James Potter and his friends—which included none other than the notorious serial killer, Sirius Black. The man who betrayed the young family to the Dark Lord when they were only twenty-one.

And Severus worries, he tells you. He worries because he sees so much of James in his son. They’re identical looking, for one. But they are also both possessed of a certain cocksurety, a sarcastic disrespect for authority and the belief that  _ they _ always know right. He dislikes Harry Potter, of course, and he admits that there is a gut-instinct aspect to that. 

But he also has his reasons. He worries what the boy will do. He worries, when the power is in Harry Potter’s hands, whether those like Severus who are self-contained and secretive, or a little edgy and dark, or even simply possessed of different opinions than the Chosen One—he worries how those people will be treated.

Of course, the boy has not proven to be a bully, which is something of a comfort—apart from his vicious attitude toward Slytherins in general, which only increases Severus’ misgivings. Not that Draco Malfoy is a particular beacon of compassion, and he’s sure the boys have very good reasons to hate each other.

The other reason he hates Harry Potter? Someone has to. Yes, he has been tasked to look after the boy. Yes, he will protect him to the ends of the earth, and somewhere deep inside he does hope this all turns out alright for him. But the entire wizarding world worships Harry Potter, and Severus thinks he can handle a little hostility now and then.

And last, and perhaps most importantly, he  _ needs _ to dislike the boy, and to show him that. His old Death Eater acquaintances watch him closely. Should the Dark Lord return, as Dumbledore seems convinced, it needs to be well known that Severus Snape loathes Harry Potter with every ounce of his being. It might be the only thing that will keep Severus alive.

You understand his stance on this. He’s clearly thought it through, and he is not simply antagonizing the boy to be cruel. But personally? You think it’s a bit more petty than he’s admitting. James Potter was his tormentor. Now his son is under Severus’ thumb, and you can understand the temptation to make his life hell. Not that that excuses it—you’re just saying, you understand. So maybe he has all these reasons to treat Harry Potter the way he does. But he also kind of enjoys it.

It’s petty. But in his shoes, you genuinely don’t know that you’d do anything different. Neither of you are particularly good people, it seems.

And then Lily Potter comes up. Lily Evans. The red head girl. 

He speaks about her only in pronouns, never able to force out the full name, and in short, halting sentences. Where before, when he was speaking of her husband and son, he was candid, almost seeming relieved to be able to spill his guts to you...now he’s reticent.

She was his best friend since childhood, he says. There was no one closer. They discovered magic together, grew up together. Shared everything. She was brilliant and beautiful, witty to match him but charming in a way Severus never was. Yet she saw him, truly saw him. Saw the best in him. And for a long time, she admired him above everyone else.

Until she didn’t.

The longer he speaks of her, the more it hurts. Both of you are hurt by it, and you’re not sure either of you will ever recover. His grief is bottomless and profound, and his memories of her are golden. You wonder if you could ever measure up to Lily Evans,  _ the _ Lily Evans, literally and figuratively his angel. Now absent, unable to betray his beautiful ideal of her. Unable to remind him of her humanness.

The ideal woman. The goddess. The one who got away.

You’re seated together on the couch in his office, and it is well past midnight. It took a long time, a lot of talking, a thousand false-starts and hesitancies, but you’re finally touching each other again. You’re leaning against his warm side, and his arm is around your shoulders, firm. Like he doesn’t want to let you go.

You stare down at your hands as he finishes describing Lily, the way she died. Everyone worships Harry Potter, but he did nothing. That is another source of frustration for Severus. It was Lily Evans who defeated the Dark Lord, not her son.

Severus lapses into thoughtful silence. You’re sure he can read your face—you hope you don’t seem jealous, though of course you are. You have to fight that as hard as you can. Jealous of a dead woman. Of a woman who is the reason Severus Snape is the way he is. God, you should be  _ thanking _ her.

“Did you tell her?” you ask softly. You feel his dark eyes on you, but you can’t look at him. Your own eyes are brimming with tears, and if you look at him, they’ll spill. And you’ve cried enough tonight, thanks so fucking much.

“Did I tell her what?” comes his deep baritone, waves of sadness echoing within.

“That you were in love with her.”

You’re still looking at your hands, twisting them together, but you feel him react—shifting uncomfortably, looking away. His arm retreats from around your shoulders, and cold air seems to fill the space between your bodies. Silence stretches on and on.

“No,” he says finally, voice breaking. You look at him—he’s turned away, expression distant and deeply sad, half-hidden behind his hair. He regrets it, you see that. He wishes he did when he had the chance.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly. 

You don’t have to ask him if he still loves her. You know the answer.

The tears do start falling now, and you reach out and hold his hands. He lets you, leaning into you, burying his face in your hair. You’re acting very mature about this, you reflect. Very emotionally stable, to behave as if the idea of Severus Snape in love with someone else doesn’t tear your heart from your chest. Because that’s the real problem, isn’t it? If Lily Evans still takes up all that space in Severus’ heart, then there will never be room for you.

He will never speak of you the way he speaks of her. Think of you the way he thinks of her. Love you the way he loves her. 

You can’t compare. He doesn’t say so, doesn’t even hint at that, but you know it. And it destroys you.

After a long silence, he tells you about his nightmares. They happen occasionally, once every few months at least. A detailed, step-by-step experience, vivid and complete, of that horrible Halloween in 1981. News reaching Severus that the Dark Lord had gone against his word to spare Lily. Apparating to Godric's Hollow, where the Potter cottage was half-destroyed. The sound of the baby upstairs carrying into the street, screaming. Racing inside, rushing to the child’s room...and seeing Lily there. Lily...

Soon after that, he seems to be out of words, and you are out of questions. You’re not sure how you feel. On one hand, you bruised each other, deeply. You with your insistence to see into his past, prying into memories that you had no right to. For all your promises to yourself about letting him take his time to open up, you really didn’t give a choice, did you? Then you kissed George, and that hurts him too, you can see it. You wish you could take it back.

But he bruised you too, of course. With his evil past, his betrayal of you, yes. But also with his clear and lingering love for a dead woman.

On the other hand, he tells you that he has never shared this with anyone else. That you are the only one he trusts to know this story and to keep it secret. And the fact that he stretched out his neck like this, made himself vulnerable for you—the thing he hates the most, the very most...It makes you feel good. It makes you feel as though this could work. You will do everything in your power not to ever betray his hard-won trust again. And you don’t want to kiss anyone else but him.

You lie on the sofa together, exhausted, your back curled against his stomach, his solid arm draped around your waist. It’s been silent for a long time—you almost think he might have fallen asleep—but then you feel his long fingers in your hair, and you turn to look at him over your shoulder. His face is drawn, pale and tired, but he manages a small smile, and you squirm to roll over in his arms, so you’re face-to-face, pressed close. He kisses your forehead.

“Why don’t you show anyone?” you ask. He frowns, and you shrug, toying with his collar thoughtfully. “You’ve got this mysterious, bad boy persona going. You always have, if what I saw of your past says anything. You act all scary. Mean, even.”

“Thank you very much,” he replies sarcastically, shifting to tuck your head under your chin. 

You laugh softly. “You’ve said so yourself.” You bite your lip and take a minute before: “So why? Why don’t you show anyone what’s inside? How good you are.”

He sighs. You might guess that he’s never really thought about it, but this is Severus Snape we’re talking about here. The man knows himself, warts and all. If anyone has analyzed their own personality, it’s him.

He takes a long time to answer, but when it does come, it makes you very sad. And you almost wish you hadn’t asked.

“Because,” he whispers, “I don’t want anyone to expect things from me.” His mouth tightens. “It’s...easier that way.”

You bury your face in his chest and squeeze him. “You don’t need to worry about letting me down,” you say, voice muffled. “So in case you were, just...don’t.”

“You came back,” Severus muses, stroking your hair. “After all that.” He shakes his head thoughtfully. “Where did you come from?”

* * *

Neither of you say anything, but when Snape opens the door to his bedroom a while later, you follow him inside. As if it should be expected. And he supposes, perhaps, that it should be.

He didn’t want to share everything he shared with you. You didn’t give him the option to refuse, and part of him wants to resent that. But it’s hard to. Because he has to admit, now that it is out...he feels better. Lighter in the chest, somehow. Presumably, this is the reason people go to therapy. This afterglow. This lightness. He hasn’t felt like this in years.

He finds the idea of you with George Weasley a bit harder to swallow, but he believes your apologies. And he believes you do not want the boy...or he’s trying to. Perhaps, in time, that pain will fade too.

Of course, there is the fact that you are here with him, not Weasley, your warm body curled up between his sheets while he stands before his wardrobe to dress for bed. His fingers stutter for an instant as he unbuttons his shirt before realizing he no longer has to hide from you. When he takes it off, though, he still keeps his left forearm as concealed from you as he can.

You don’t notice, or you pretend not to notice, going on about something light and unimportant, cracking jokes to lighten the mood. It’s working. Snape even finds himself smiling as he slips on a long gray nightshirt and climbs onto the mattress. 

You still as he approaches you, and the wariness in your eyes hurts. You’re trying to fight it, he can tell—but after tonight, you will never again be able to easily trust him. You can accept him and forgive him, yes. But that innocence in your eyes, that wide-eyed faith that he always knows right, that he, your teacher and your lover, will never steer you wrong or try to hurt you...that look is gone now.

“What?” he asks, low and guarded, because your expression has darkened significantly since he joined you on the mattress. He almost feels like he should retreat, but he refuses to. This is  _ his _ bed.

“You have to promise me, Sev,” you say. Snape stills, watching you, his eyes darting back and forth between yours. He clenches his jaw, waiting for the cut. “No more lies,” you continue. “No more secrets.”

It’s the worst thing you could ask of him. Because of course, if the worst happens and the Dark Lord returns, he will certainly have to keep secrets from you. For now, his conscience is blissfully clear in that regard...but he fears that by promising such a thing, he’s already telling another lie.

All the same, Snape nods stiffly. “No more secrets,” he repeats, voice surprisingly rough.

You exhale, almost tearfully relieved, and he extends a spidery white hand and touches your cheek, expecting you to flinch away. But you don’t—you still a moment, but you don’t pull back—then you lean into his palm. He closes his eyes in silent thanks and breathes deeply.

“I haven’t kissed you in two weeks,” he says, opening his eyes again to meet yours seriously. “It’s...getting old.”

“Are you asking permission?” you say, smiling cheekily. Snape rolls his eyes and you laugh. “You’re asking  _ me _ permission.” 

Snape lunges at you, sensing the game, trying to drag your face against his, but you dance backwards playfully, scrambling up on the bed. He lands on his stomach and looks up at you reproachfully, unable to help the low, annoyed groan from leaving him. You laugh.

“I think I like this,” you say, stretching as you lean back against the headboard like a queen on her throne. “The  _ power.  _ Maybe you should be in trouble more often.”

Snape closes his eyes, horrified at the thought. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t survive it.”

You laugh, nodding, and seem to rethink. “Me neither.” And you scoot down, wiggling your way under his arms so that you’re lying beneath him, your faces close, noses brushing gently. Snape pauses to watch your face, unable for the thousandth time to believe something as beautiful as you is sharing his bed. 

“Okay,” you whisper, smiling and tracing his cheekbone with one little finger. “You can kiss me now.”

Snape can’t help but smile back, leaning down slowly, covering your body with his and bracing his elbows on either side of your head. He stills a moment just before his lips touch yours, closing his eyes as your breath spills across his face, feeling the soft skin of your cheeks and the flutter of your lashes. 

He has to hold on to this, he thinks. This exact moment, in all its perfection. Whenever you lash out at each other, when you make it torture for him, when he is flailing, desperately trying to keep himself together as your eyes threaten to tear him apart. Whenever you frustrate him, or whenever guilt floods him because you are so much  _ better  _ than he is, and he does not deserve you. Whenever he thinks what you’re asking of him is impossible, when your demand that he does better angers him and he simply wants to push you away. He’ll remember this moment. And he’ll remind himself that you are worth it.

Snape’s lips brush against yours, a gentle kiss, trying to explain his depth of emotion. He doesn’t have words for it—he strongly resists putting it into words. But whatever flutterings he felt before, this past horrible week has magnified them. You have shown him you will listen and accept. You requested, then demanded, then (paradoxically)  _ gained _ his trust.

Your mouth opens under him, your warm tongue sliding against his, a delicious moan escaping from that lovely throat. He’s missed this. He’s missed  _ you. _

Snape shifts, cradling your body in his arms as he lies over you. He doubts you’ll be having sex tonight—you both like it rough, and you’re both too tired for that. But he wonders how long you’ll let him kiss you. He could go on for hours, frankly. Not that he’ll tell you that.

Suddenly, from outside in the corridor, there is a horrible clatter and crash, followed directly by an unearthly wailing.

You both sit up, and the look on your face shows clear panic. Snape rubs his temples, furiously glancing around. What the  _ hell _ is it?

“Stay here,” he orders you, climbing off the bed. You bite your cheeks, clearly considering jumping up to follow. Snape opens the door to his office and notices with alarm that the torches are lit. Another teacher could be out there. He stops in his tracks and looks back to you. “[First name],” he barks, and you freeze, having just been sliding out of bed.  _ “Stay.” _

You take a moment, eyes filling with defiance, before glancing past him through the door and finally closing your mouth to nod. You slip back into bed. Snape rolls his eyes and steps into his office, closing his bedroom door firmly behind him and concealing it with the tapestry.

The wailing has stopped now, but it doesn't mean things are alright. He can’t quite believe, as he notices the door of his ingredients cupboard is hanging ajar, that this is happening. Tonight of all nights—when he could use, more than anything, a bit of peace after a lot of turmoil. His head is aching fiercely already.

It only takes him a quick scan of the ingredients in the closet to know that they’ve been moved around, and a few are certainly missing. He’s not sure which ones yet, but a thorough inventory will have to wait. He can hear movement out in the corridor, a voice. And what was that wailing noise?

Snape strides out of his office, feeling angrier than perhaps the situation warrants. Of course, being stolen from is enough to enrage him, and a clanging and wailing in the corridor is never good news, but he just wants to hold you and fall asleep in your arms, and of bloody  _ course _ he can’t.

Coming into the corridor, Snape immediately catches sight of a figure on the lower stairs, holding something large and golden in his arms. A slinky tabby cat winds around his ankles.

“Filch?” Snape asks, realizing he didn’t even put a dressing gown on. He’s only in his gray nightshirt. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Peeves, Professor,” Filch whispers, turning to him, eyes wide. He holds out the golden object, which Snape now recognizes as one of the champions’ golden eggs, given to them at the end of the first task. “He threw this egg down the stairs.”

Snape examines it, heart sinking. He has a feeling it’s not as simple as that. He has a feeling the poltergeist has nothing to do with this. And he has a feeling this night is about to get even longer.


	33. Getting Back to Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How am I this lucky, to have such incredible readers???
> 
> The supremely talented JennoSama honored me with some fanart (featured below). It's fucking beautiful and incredible, and it made my day and got me off my ass to actually finish writing this chapter. THANK YOU SO MUCH! I love you, bby. You literally inspire me.
> 
> Here is the link. Follow her tumblr! She's an amazing artist. 
> 
> https://foreverflowercore.tumblr.com/post/637562969378668544/i-was-reasonably-inspired-to-redraw-one-of-my
> 
> Does everyone imagine the Reader as a golden haired goddess? I try never to specifically state her hair color, so you can fill in your own. Does she just, like, give off blond energy? I am curious.
> 
> Either way, I love it and this picture is perfect. I love the painting it's based on, and it's so cool to see it recreated here. Severus' cloak is like...everything. Absolutely everything.
> 
> Okay, I'll stop gushing jesus someone muzzle me.
> 
> I do have a little housekeeping here (not as fun as amazing fanart). 
> 
> I know this is the longest I’ve kept you waiting between updates since first posting this story. I hope you didn’t get scared I was gone forever...trust me, I won’t be abandoning this. I’m having way too much fun (and I get to interact with members of the Sad Bitch Club, which is making my fucking life). The only issue is that I’m working completely from scratch here, nothing prewritten, and with the holidays...updates might become more of a weekly thing for a while. I’m not sure though! It honestly has a lot to do with when I’m inspired, and how fun and angsty the chapter I’m working on is. 
> 
> Speaking of which, compared to the last four chapters, this one is fairly tame and uneventful. It’s necessary, though...we need moments of calm to make the drama more **spicy**. 
> 
> Ummm...yeah, so anyway, I'll try not to keep you waiting so long next time, but if I do, it's not because I'm gone forever. Okay? Okay.
> 
> I love you so much, babies. Sorry about the novel this note became.

* * *

_Cross my heart and hope to die,  
_ _Burn my lungs and curse my eyes.  
_ _I've lost control, and I don't want it back.  
_ _I'm going numb, I've been hijacked.  
_ _It's a fucking drag.  
_ _I taste you on my lips, and I can't get rid of you  
_ _So I say damn your kiss and the awful things you do.  
_ _Yeah, you're worse than nicotine._

“Nicotine” - Panic! At the Disco

* * *

Severus doesn’t come back for twenty minutes, which you spend pacing around his bedroom, anxious. You hate just staying behind, but you dread the idea of leaving his office in the dead of night, dressed in what is clearly a male’s bedrobe, and coming face to face with another teacher. That would ruin everything, and after only _just_ making it right with him, you won’t risk it.

When the door finally opens, you spin around and watch Severus storm inside, clearly furious.

“Uh oh,” you say as he slams the door behind him, scootching up onto the bed. 

“Potter,” he growls. You watch a vein pulse in his temple while he paces back and forth, agitated. “He’s been lurking around—stealing ingredients from my personal store.”

“What?” you ask, confused, scooting closer to him. “Why?”

Severus glances at you and clearly makes a concerted effort to relax. “I’ve no idea,” he replies. 

“Well, what did he say?”

“Nothing,” Severus says, sneering. “I couldn’t find him—the boy has an Invisibility Cloak.”

You gasp. Those are rare, if they’re legitimate. “How the hell did a fourteen-year-old get his hands on an Invisibility Cloak?”

“His father left it to him,” Severus says dismissively, as if that’s the last thing you should be focused on. 

You nod thoughtfully, then frown. “And you’re sure it was him?” You watch him. Is this simply a case of Potter-prejudice? You wouldn’t put it past him.

“Of course I am, [First name],” he says sharply, and you raise your hands in surrender. “That wailing we heard was his golden egg, and I caught sight of something else he dropped—an enchanted bit of parchment I caught him with last year.” He shakes his head, fuming. “I was going to take it, if Moody hadn’t come along...”

“Moody was out there?” you ask warily. You hadn’t liked your last interaction with the ex-Auror—he looked at you like you were meat, and he looked at Severus like he was slime. He made you nervous in a way you aren’t used to. You’ve never felt that way simply because someone was a teacher.

“He came along,” Severus says, closing his eyes. You reach out and clasp his hand, and he squeezes hard for a moment before sighing. He finally sits down on the bed, looking more tired than ever. “He accused me of ‘having it in’ for the boy.”

“To your _face?”_ you say, shocked. Severus shrugs, glancing at you. “What an asshole!”

“Moody doesn’t trust me,” he replies, the corner of his mouth twitching at your name-calling. He gestures to his left wrist. “He brought up the Mark. Implied that my loyalties were still in question. Actually, what he said was, ‘There are some marks that never wash off’.” Your mouth drops open as Severus grimaces. “A bit of a blow after tonight, I’ll admit.”

“That _bastard,”_ you hiss, hands clenching into fists. “I’m setting off a load of dungbombs in his office tomorrow or something. He’ll never suspect me—I don’t even take his class.” Severus glances over, seeming comforted by the solidarity, and he manages a small smile.

“You don’t want to be on Mad-Eye Moody’s bad side,” he cautions. The smile slips as he considers something, and that worried crease appears again between his eyebrows. “He searched my office on Monday.”

“What?” you ask, again shocked and affronted. “Why?”

The look Severus sends you is blank but somewhat amused. A look that says, _Why do you think?_

“But,” you say indignantly, “he can’t just _do_ that! He’s not an Auror anymore, and you’ve done nothing wrong!”

“That’s not how he sees it,” Severus replies, seeming exhausted and deeply annoyed. “I let him, because it was easier than arguing. Though I won’t believe his implication that Dumbledore ordered him to do it.”

“No way,” you agree. “He’d tell you if that was the case, at least.”

Severus nods, the idea seeming to comfort, before remembering something. His black eyes flick over to yours. “I think we should be more careful.” You sit up straighter, worried, and he shakes his head. “Moody found your tie. You left it here—I’m not sure when. I put it in the wardrobe.” He shrugs. “I forgot to give it to you.”

You put your hand to your mouth, horrified. “What’d he say when he found it?”

Severus shrugs. “I told him students leave their items in my office all the time and that I had no idea whose it was.” He grimaces. “Though he did sniff it, which I found...upsetting.”

“What the fuck,” you say, disgusted. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” Severus replies, closing his eyes. “Anyway, while he’s in the castle, you can’t leave your clothes here. Who knows when I’ll have the pleasure of another one of his visits.”

“That is such _bullshit,”_ you say, enraged on his behalf. “Like you’re a fucking juvenile delinquent or something.” You kneel upright and crawl over to him, seated at the end of the bed, his slender back bowed over in exhaustion as he leans down to rub his eyes. With a flicker of hesitation—but only a flicker—you put your hands on each of his shoulders. He twitches under your fingers, but otherwise remains still. So you begin to give him a massage.

Severus groans immediately, rather loudly, into his palms as they cover his face. He leans back against you, eagerly accepting your touch as you work your fingers and thumbs into the ropey muscle coiled around his broad shoulders. You can’t believe how tense he is, how many knots he has. 

You lean down and brush his hair away from his neck to kiss him gently, just below his ear, pleased to feel a shiver race through him. Immediately, his face turns toward you, but you lean back and whisper into his hair, “You carry your stress in your shoulders.”

“Lately, it feels like I carry it everywhere,” he remarks, and you laugh, kissing his neck again. 

Your hands don’t stop moving, and your tongue sweeps out to find the center of his pulse. His collar bone juts above his gray shirt, and every tendon in his neck stands out as he leans his head back to rest against your shoulder. Your tongue sweeps up toward his ear, then back toward his chest, forcing another groan through him. He turns his head, and you feel the roughness of the barest hint of stubble around his jaw.

“More of that, Miss [Last name],” he says, voice oddly strangled, “and I might do something you’ll regret.” 

A thrill zips through you at the dominance in his tone—something you haven’t heard in a fortnight—and you lean down to flick your tongue at his ear. _“I might do something you’ll regret,”_ you mock, bratty and grinning.

He chuckles lowly and shakes his head, turning around to capture your fingers in his. Slowly, almost tenderly, he puts both arms behind your back and locks them there in one hand. The other, he hooks behind your neck and uses to pull you against him, meeting your lips in a heated kiss. He slowly lowers you backwards onto the bed, legs tangling together, and you think that maybe you _could_ muster up the strength to make love tonight, despite how exhausted you are.

You arch against his body as he lowers you, giving him full control, and he settles over you, heavy and strong and angular. His mouth opens against yours slowly, tongue sweeping out. It’s not the usual brand of roughness and quickness you’re used to when things are ramping up, but you enjoy it nonetheless, squirming beneath him, reaching up to clutch his body closer to yours.

After only a few minutes, however, he stops, pulls back an inch and examines your face. “I think you need sleep,” he says, and you’re so warmed by the sentiment, that perfect mix of caring and authoritativeness, that you smile and decide not to argue. He’s right.

“You do, too,” you say, kissing the tip of his nose. 

He exhales and leans down to rest your foreheads together, closing his eyes. “You have no idea,” he says. 

You smile, brushing hair out of his face. “Can I stay?”

His eyes open enough to give you a wry look. “The very idea of refusing you is terrifying.”

You laugh aloud this time and kiss him. “Good.”

You sleep in Severus’ room until around 4AM, as usual, when you steal back to your dorm to get another few hours. Everything goes smooth as silk. No one in the halls. No Harper asking where you’ve been.

Walking down to breakfast at 8:30, the whole world seems brighter and warmer than it was yesterday. Colin notices your change in mood, and he’s practically ecstatic, though he still doesn’t understand why. He’s stopped asking, though, which is good—he just accepts it as an amazing shift in his luck. 

You even grin and wave at Benji when you take your seat at the Slytherin table—he’s sitting at the other end with his little brother, Blaise, and that Draco Malfoy kid—and you’re pleased to see his sheepish wave back. No Victoire in sight this morning. Is it too soon to hope...?

That would be another thing to make your life whole and perfect again—having Benji back. He doesn’t move down to you, but you suppose a smile and a nod are starters. 

Colin’s chattering your ear off, arm slung around Brenna, and you revel in it as you glance up to the teacher’s table. Severus isn’t looking your way, but you smile at his black and white figure. You’re so ready for things to be back to normal, relatively drama free. But he’s the most important part of that. As long as you have Sev, you think you’ll be able to take on anything.

A bright flash of red in your periphery, and a loud, familiar guffaw rings out over the chatter of other students. You glance over, your smile slipping slightly as you see George Weasley stride across the hall with Lee Jordan. He looks cheerful this morning, flushed from the cold, freckles standing out on his pink cheeks as he throws back his head and laughs. 

Just as he starts to glance your way, you lower your eyes, face paling.

Yeah. Remember _that_ little experience? In all the excitement with Severus, you almost forgot there’s yet another difficult conversation to have.

Now what the hell are you going to tell him?

You start biting on your cheeks, staring at your plate as you consider. All George knows is that Benji wasn’t aware of an American boyfriend. So maybe you can still fix this...with more lies. But again, what other choice do you have? And the bottom line is the same. You’re taken. That can’t happen again.

You just wish he wasn’t so cute.

The day goes by as usual, and the closer the clock ticks to Potions, the more eager you get. Sure, you and Severus were too tired last night to do any serious petting, but today is a new day. And you, for one, are brimming with energy.

Severus catches your eye when you walk into his classroom that afternoon. His raised eyebrow and slight smirk make your heart flutter—you’re positive he’s thinking the very same thing.

Yet again, you barely get through class. You’re supremely distracted by him, given that you’ve barely kissed him in a fortnight. And frankly, your sex drive is not letting you forget that; this feels almost as bad as his birthday. You’re not going to mention this, but this thing with him really has the potential to affect your grades. And Severus firmly refuses to go easier on you in class simply because you’re sleeping with him. You maintain that that’s completely unfair, and how dare he. But he’s not swayed.

Anyway, you end up turning in a potion that is acceptable, but definitely on the “barely” side. It earns you a sneer from the Potions Master, so you leave with the rest of the students. The plan is to give him an hour and come back for Felix Felicis maintenance, and hopefully by then he’ll have forgotten to lecture you about it. Your performance in class is something he watches carefully, and you remember his words too well: “If this becomes ruinous for either of us, I will end it.”

Though honestly, you’re not sure that applies anymore. After the drama of the last two weeks, it feels like Severus really cares. How far would he let you slip before ending things? You assume it would have to be fairly cataclysmic. But you also firmly decide against finding out.

Either way, it seems an hour isn’t enough time. When you enter his office shortly before 4PM, Severus glances up sharply from his desk.

“What was _that?”_ he asks immediately. You stop, surprised, and he waves a hand toward where your potion sample is bottled at his desk.

“Oh,” you say lightly, heading toward the potion lab. “Some kind of Everlasting Elixir, I think you said.” When he frowns deeply, you send him a cheeky smile and turn toward the Felix.

“[First name]...” you hear him sigh from behind, and without even looking, you can practically _see_ him kneading the bridge of his nose. Deliberately unperturbed, you pick up the stirring rod and start on the potion.

“Severus,” you reply in a matching tone, counting your stirs.

You hear him rise slowly from his chair and smile to yourself. You love irritating him like this; it usually results in some kind of “punishment.” He sighs again, knowing the game you’re playing.

“This is far from your best work,” he replies darkly, picking up the vial between long, graceful fingers and regarding it with disgust.

You glance at him over your shoulder after you finish stirring, and you turn the knob on the burner to increase the fire’s heat. He remains patiently silent through all of it, knowing you need to concentrate. While waiting for the potion to heat up, you smile and shake your head.

“I was distracted,” you say, shrugging. “Or I guess just...excited.”

“I didn’t even touch you,” Severus replies.

You laugh, stirring again. “That’s exactly the problem.” Finally, you lower the temperature on the potion and put down the stirring rod. Yet another maintenance perfectly complete. And the potion is more than halfway done. Keep this up, and by April he might even let you sample it.

You jot a note in the ledger beside you, congratulating yourself on the potion’s perfect golden hue, and jump when you turn to find Severus looming in the doorway. You didn’t even hear him move.

“Jesus,” you say. “Ever thought about becoming a ninja?”

In lieu of a response, Severus grabs you by the tie and drags you out of the lab. You squeal you go, watching him flick his wand to lock and soundproof the door. Then he shoves you roughly against the wall, one hand at your throat, his body following just behind.

“I shouldn’t do this,” he says softly, dangerously, black eyes hooded as they roam over your body. He cups your chin in his large hand and brings his face close to you. “I don’t want you thinking I _reward_ bad behavior.”

“Stop, then,” you challenge, smirking. With a low, annoyed grunt, Severus ignores you and quickly tugs apart the catch on your cloak, letting it fall off your shoulders and pool on the ground. He gathers you fully into his arms, pulling you into him, letting you feel his physical superiority. God, he’s strong.

“Perhaps I should,” he says, smirking, lowering his face toward yours. You whimper when his nose brushes yours, and wrap your arms around his neck to forcibly pull him to you. He resists, his smirk growing, stilling you by tightening his arms. 

You frown, genuinely getting annoyed. “Sev,” you chide sharply, stamping your foot angrily. 

It gets him, your tone and your pout, like a spoiled child. Laughing, Severus pushes you roughly back against the wall, his mouth already open as it forces itself against yours. You moan instantly, practically melting into him, your hands running over his arms and chest, combing through his hair. Then your knee shifts between his legs, and you feel him push back against it, and suddenly the kiss becomes something else.

The momentum shifts, increasing swiftly into something hotter and needier. You gasp as he reaches up to wrench the knot of your tie apart, then tugs down to whip it from around your neck. Silky green fabric slips between his long fingers as he leans back from the kiss to smirk at you. Dark eyes flicking down, he grabs both of your wrists and winds the tie around them, yanking the knot tight, meeting your eye and chuckling at your gasp. Bondage, huh? You’re game.

Gripping one end of the tie, he forces your arms quickly above your head and jams himself against you. You bump back against the wall, flushed and turned on, wriggling your arms a little to test the limits of the tie around your wrists. He wraps his end of the tie firmly around his hand and tugs up a little, making you go up on tiptoes as your lips crash into each other again. His opposite hand flies to your neck as the kiss intensifies, lusty and open, and you gasp into his mouth as he squeezes, his long, pale fingers wrapping around your throat like the perfect necklace.

You wriggle against him, and he groans low in his throat, pushing his hips into you. The hand around your neck drops down and flicks under your skirt, pressing quickly against your underwear before sliding beneath. You gasp, and he leans back, grinning, eyes moving over your face.

“Look how wet you get,” he muses, a long finger dipping between your folds. “All for me.”

He pumps a few times, watching your face, and he chuckles when you moan, his thumb moving in tiny rapid circles. Your knees buckle, but he jams himself against you to keep you upright, and you feel your eyes roll back in your head.

“Merlin, you’re pretty like this,” he whispers, bending to sweep his tongue along your jaw. You let out a strangled moan.

After a few moments, he stops his ministrations and plants both hands on your hips to spin you forcibly around. Your breath catches as your cheek bumps against the coarse stone wall, and your still-bound hands come up to brace against it. A moan escapes, shaky and uneven, when Severus presses himself against your ass, pulling your hips back to meet him. Your back arching, you bend at the waist, legs spread wide, hands scrambling at the wall for purchase. You can feel the pressure of Severus’ thighs and pelvis behind you—you’re at the perfect height for him to thrust into you.

And sure enough, he flips up your skirt, baring your skin to him. You pant as his fingers tangle in your underwear, stroking roughly.

“Sev,” you say, breathless at his quick pace and forcefulness. One of his palms claps against your ass, cutting off any more words in a gasp of pain and arousal.

“Shut up,” he orders, dragging your panties impatiently down your thighs. You feel him start to undo his trousers, and you twitch in anticipation. “You’re so ready.”

At that moment, there is a loud knock at the office door.

You both freeze, heads whipping toward the source of the noise. You feel your heart start to pound, a cold rush of terror sweeping through you as another knock sounds. This has never happened before. Someone wants in, is interrupting you in a very compromising position. What do you do?

Severus backs off instantly. “Straighten up,” he hisses, stressed and pale. He quickly pulls up your panties, rights your skirt and buttons his trousers. When you’re upright again, he turns you toward him and tugs the tie from around your wrists, shoving it into the pocket of his robe. “Go to the lab.”

Nodding, you jog away from him and into the potion lab to smooth yourself over and button your shirt up to your throat. There’s a third, slightly more hesitant knock at the door. Severus paces over quickly and flings it open.

 _“What?”_ he asks harshly.

“Er, hi, professor,” a familiar voice says, and you slap a hand over your mouth. “I heard through the grapevine that I could find [First name] [Last name] in here around this time?”

Sighing, you pop your head around the corner and wave at none other than George Fucking Weasley. 

“I’m here,” you say. 

The beam he throws you practically sparkles, and you watch the tips of his ears get red. “Hey,” he says, waving at you around Severus, whose look is suddenly very dark. “Can I steal you?” You glance at Severus, and he follows your gaze, hesitating a bit. “I mean, if it’s alright with you, sir.”

Severus sneers at him. “Miss [Last name] is doing schoolwork at the moment, Weasley,” he replies. He turns and paces across the room, shooting you an annoyed look. You almost smile—before you glance down and notice the end of your conspicuous green tie dangling out of his pocket. You can’t signal to him, because it would surely be noticed.

“Ah, right,” George says, still grinning at you. He jams his hands into the pockets of his trousers, rocking back and forth on his heels. He’s clearly not intimidated by Severus, but nor does he seem to notice the tie. So you’ll take whatever wins you can get.

George directs his next question at you, practically ignoring your professor (possibly doing so specifically to irritate him). “Will you be done soon?”

“Uh...” you glance at Sev, still feeling heated and sort of shaky. He rolls his eyes and looks away from you. “Yeah. Just—just finishing up.”

“Brilliant,” George chirps, striding into the office. “I’ll just hang around, then.” He drapes himself into a wooden chair near the lab, looking utterly at ease.

Clearly furious, Severus sweeps around his desk and drops into his chair while you disappear back into the lab. You’re simultaneously annoyed and on the verge of a mini panic attack, and you push a hand through your hair to smooth it down. God _dammit._ You really wanted to have sex today.

You pretend to jot a note in the Felix journal, then quickly stride back into the office to gather your things. Your book bag is rather innocent, left on the ground near the door. But your cloak is pooled on the ground near the wall he pushed you up against, and you know it looks a bit odd that it’s not hanging on a hook, or at least draped across a chair. It’s clear it was just thrown (or torn) off. George tilts his head at you as you bend to pick it up, but you just smile as if you don’t see the problem and wrap it around your shoulders.

“Okay,” you say, still feeling flustered. 

“That _was_ quick,” George says. He jumps up from the chair as you sling on your bookbag, and he casually drapes an arm around your shoulders. “I caught you at a good time, then.”

You giggle wildly, flustered and embarrassed. “Yep,” you say as he leads you to the door. You glance back at Severus, trying to throw a _help me_ look across the room, but he just turns away, clearly angry. Great. Another mess to smooth over. “Bye, professor!”

The door shuts firmly behind you, and George gives you a squeeze as you start down the hallway together. He takes his arm from around you, and you’re glad for it, but then he stuffs his hands in his pockets again, bouncing with each step. He actually looks a bit nervous—his shoulders are tense—but he turns toward you with a smile as you walk, raising his eyebrows.

“So,” he says bracingly. “Sorry to barge in on your work. I wanted to come find you, since you weren’t...you know...” He rubs the back of his neck, looking down sheepishly. “Weren’t coming to find me.” The smile he sends you is crooked and hopeful, and you can’t meet his eye.

“It’s fine,” you say. “I was done anyway.”

“Why was the door locked?” George asks without any particular gravitas behind it, like he’s just idly wondering. “Snape’s office door.” The question makes your stomach bottom out.

You swallow thickly, then feign surprise. “Was it?” you ask, voice nearly breaking. You clear your throat, then add as casually as you can, “Weird.” You shrug. “The handle’s kinda broken. It might’ve locked on its own or—” _Stop talking. Liars tend to over-explain._ “Whatever.”

“Right,” George says, clasping his hands behind his back. “Right.” 

There’s a long moment of silence, awkward and pregnant, and you stick a finger into your mouth to gnaw worryingly at the edges of your nail. You wish he’d just start asking questions so you can start telling lies. Get this over with. You take a few deep breaths, and decide to speak.

“Listen—”

“Can I—”

He begins talking at the same time, and you both stop abruptly when you realize it. Then you’re chuckling, nervous, glancing at each other. His eyes are bright, and he bumps his hip playfully against yours.

“You first,” he says.

“No,” you reply firmly. “Say what you were gonna say.”

George beams. “Alright, then,” he replies. His eyes fall to the floor again as he gathers his thoughts. Then he looks up to the ceiling and rolls his neck, blowing out his cheeks. You almost smile. Usually he’s so self-assured, and now he’s more nervous than you’ve ever seen him. But as sweet as it is, it doesn’t bode well, you think.

“What...happened last night?” George asks after a long moment of silence. There’s a smile playing around his full lips, but he’s still not looking at you.

You sigh. “You remember what happened.”

“I remember you were crying,” he replies, nodding, blushing. “And I remember making up for that stupid fight.” He finally meets your eye, grinning but clearly curious. “And then, I remember...kissing a little.” His smile grows as you scoff and shake your head. “Alright, kissing a lot, then.”

“George...” you start, but he gently takes your arm and stops you in your tracks. He turns you toward him, and you don’t want to look at him, but he tilts your chin up and makes you. His pale face, his freckles, his deep brown eyes. _Goddammit he’s so cute._ So cute and sweet and genuine, and much, much too good for you.

“I wanted to say sorry,” he says, looking quite genuine. Your eyes widen, locking onto his.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have,” George replies, looking away, bashful. “You were obviously upset, and I shouldn’t have...I don’t want you feeling like I took advantage...”

 _He’s apologizing._ He’s _apologizing to_ me.

It makes you feel like shit all over.

“Oh, George,” you say, reaching up to touch his face. He grins, tilting his head into your palm and you sigh, dropping it after only a moment of contact. You can’t lead him on anymore. But he’s so eager to read into everything you do, it’s hard to show him your affection without doing so.

“I like you, [First name],” he says softly, catching your hands in his and bringing them up to kiss them. “I really like you.”

“You have a girlfriend,” you say shakily, trying this line of defense first.

George shakes his head. “I broke it off with Mala last week,” he replies. He grimaces, shakes his head. “She wasn’t...you.”

You want to groan, throw your head back in frustration. Instead, you just nod in resignation.

“I really am seeing someone,” you say firmly. George’s face falls, a flash of anger and disbelief streaking across it. “I’m not lying!” you say. “Just because I don’t tell Benji all about my personal life doesn’t mean I made it up.” You pout, folding your arms. “If you’d have let me talk to you, or if you’d read any of my notes, you’d know that.”

“What’s his name?” George asks, and it annoys you because it almost seems like he’s testing you. Pushing to catch you in a lie.

“Se—Seth,” you reply, making it up on the spot. “He’s...twenty. He lives in Seattle, my hometown. And...and I’m in love with him.”

You pull out of George’s loosened fingers, simultaneously pleased and saddened to see the crestfallen look on his face.

“I like you, George,” you say. “I really do, and I don’t want to hurt you.” You shake your head as he looks away from you, eyebrows furrowed, more serious than perhaps you’ve ever seen him. “Last night was a mistake. I was...I was upset, and I missed you.”

“I’m not stupid,” George replies, meeting your gaze again with intensity. He reaches out suddenly and clutches the back of your neck, hauling your faces close. His big brown eyes look worried and sincere. “The way you kissed me, [First name]...That wasn’t just because you missed me.” Your breath hitches as his lips move closer. “You felt something. Both of us did.”

You tear away from him before he can kiss you. “George,” you say firmly. “I can’t.”

He backs off immediately, nodding, jamming one hand back in his pocket. “Sorry,” he says, and runs a hand through his shaggy hair. He meets your eye, grinning crookedly, keeping his distance. Then he whispers, “Tell me I’m wrong.” You frown, and he shrugs. “Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll drop it. I’ll never mention it again.”

You wish you could. And maybe it would be better if you did. But it’s not true, and you want to hurt him as little as you can.

So, knowing it’s probably a bad idea, you sigh. “You’re not wrong,” you say, looking away. You catch his grin widening in your periphery though, and he straightens. “But you should still drop it. I’m not...” You shake your head. “I’m not a good idea.” You can tell by his shrug that he doesn’t believe this, so you meet his eye gravely. “Seriously, George,” you say. “I will break your heart.”

You don’t know how else to say it. Because you will, you know that, if he continues the way he’s going. Sorry, but he’ll never be Severus. Even if things don’t work out with the Potions Master, you’ll spend the rest of your life chasing that high. And George Weasley won’t ever be able to fulfill it. He’s candy and laughter and stolen wine, and that’s very fun. But you’ve tasted something darker. You’ve tasted depth and sex and secrets, and it has you hooked. And George Weasley should run from you as fast as he can.

And the thing is, when those words are out, you watch them hit him. Sober him. He leans back from you, regarding you warily for the first time.

“You sound so serious,” he says carefully, half-laughing, but it fades away quickly.

“I _am_ serious,” you reply. You want to scare him away, show him a side of you he’s never seen. He knows you’re a bit edgy, a bit of a rebel, but he doesn’t think there’s any actual darkness to you. And you can’t blame him—before this year, there really wasn’t (besides angst over an absent father). But you’ve taken on Severus now, and that means taking on _his_ darkness. And you have so much to hide.

There’s a long silence while George regards you, a bit of concern between his eyebrows. It’s sinking in, you think. He’s realizing he doesn’t know everything about you—he doesn’t really _know_ you at all, actually, not the way Sev does. And that hurts, it does, that you can’t show him everything you are. But the secrets you guard are too valuable.

“Blimey, [First name]...” He’s wincing now, rubbing the back of his neck, unsure of how to make this better but (knowing George Weasley) having the pathological urge to do so.

You smile. He’s cute. He’s immature and light and free, goofy and fun and clever. He’s candy and stolen wine. And you want him to stay that way for as long as he possibly can.

“Listen,” you say, voice softening. “Can we just forget it? I really want to be your friend. I _really_ care about you.”

George’s big brown eyes meet yours, for a moment intense and possibly a little scared. Then his long arms are wrapped around you, and he’s crushing you to his chest. You laugh gently, squeezing back, wrapped in spun sugar and mint and deodorant. 

“Dunno if I’ll forget it,” he says softly into your ear, “but I want to be friends, too.” 

You grimace, but inwardly shrug. Better than nothing. 

“[Last name].”

You’ve been expecting Severus to come out and find you for the last few minutes, so when his voice echoes down the hall, you’re not really surprised. George’s arms tighten around you defiantly, but you disentangle yourself to turn toward him, tall and robed in black, standing by the office door with his arms folded. You smile at him, but his face does not soften. He’s regarding George like he could spit venom at him.

“Sir,” you say, breathless. George meets your eye, grinning conspiratorially.

“If you’ve finished fondling each other,” Severus continues, voice icy, and you almost snort in amusement, “I need you back here. In your...distraction, you forgot an important step.”

Jealous, jealous Severus. The look he’s giving George right now could curdle milk, and the boy seems highly amused by it. Sev really needs to hide his clear investment in you, and his anger when other males so much as speak to you. It’s not exactly subtle.

“Right,” you say, throwing George a small grin before heading back toward Severus. “Later, Weasley.”

“See ya, gorgeous,” he replies cheekily, saluting, and you can’t help but laugh as you roll your eyes. Reaching Severus, he gives you a very cold look before placing a firm hand on the small of your back and pushing you into the office. 

Therein, he locks the door and turns to stare you down, arms folding his robes around him in a defensive stance you’ve seen before. You almost laugh, but you decide you need to be kind. You’re not making this easy on him, and after your kiss with George (confirming his suspicions and fears, in his mind) you can understand his feelings. He doesn’t want you around him. But you’re not going to let him dictate who your friends are. Because, really, the kiss with George went back to being upset over Severus, anyway. And _nothing will happen with him again._

 _“Gorgeous?”_ Severus asks scathingly, and you cringe. 

“We made up,” you say. “He hugged me. He’s...” You sigh while Severus stares at you, clearly angry. He doesn’t deal with jealousy well—he’s not at his most emotionally mature when it comes to rivals in love, and you get that. It opens old and deep scars. “He likes me, Sev. I can’t control what he says.”

Severus’ eyes dart away from you, and some kind of pain flashes behind them. “I want you to answer me honestly,” he says lowly, and you start getting worried.

“Of course.”

“Do you _like_ him too?”

You sigh. It’s a hard question. But he wants honesty, so you’ll give it to him—after last week, it’s the least you owe each other. “In a way,” you say, finally, and his teeth bare, a look of pain and disgust. “I don’t find him repulsive, I mean. He’s funny and cute. And if not for you, I’d probably give him a shot.” You pace over to Severus, who looks more wounded with each word, and for the first time, _you_ are the one to turn _his_ face to meet your eyes. “But I never even think of him, Sev. Because I have you. You’re so much... _more_ to me than George Weasley.” You watch his eyes search yours, and you try to relay the truth of what you’re saying. “I wasn’t fair to either of you when I let him kiss me. I regret it.” You touch his cheek, and he doesn’t shrink away, so you take that as a good sign. “I told him that. I only want you.”

“You told him you only want me?” Severus asks, quirking a brow as he allows you to sidle closer, hiding his deeper emotions behind wry sarcasm, as usual.

You roll your eyes. “Well, I told him your name was Seth, you’re twenty, and you live in Seattle.” 

Severus snorts. _“Seth,”_ he repeats dryly. “Brilliant.”

“It’s a good, strong, biblical name,” you argue, reaching up to kiss him. He lets you, though he does make you work for the loosening of his shoulders. You’re eager to ramp it up into what was happening earlier, and after a while, you kiss him into agreement. Though when his large hands fist into your hair, he pulls perhaps a bit harder than necessary.

You know he doesn’t completely forgive you for the kiss with George. At first, last night, you’d sort of glossed over the details, but in the end he dragged it from you. The fact that it was far more than a chaste peck on the lips wounded him, and you tried so hard to impress that you weren’t in your right mind. He still struggles with it, struggles to believe, and that fills you with shame and guilt. And every time George drapes his arm over you or hugs you or calls you gorgeous when your Potions Master is around...it feels like you're driving that dagger deeper into Severus’ back. You don’t want that. Even while actively kissing George, you didn’t want that.

It’s going to take time, you know that. Time to gain back his faith and show him that he is truly the only man you want (and it _is_ the truth, goddammit, despite George insisting otherwise!) He’s slow to forgive and slow to trust, and you almost ruined it. But you’ll make up for it.

And in the end, for today at least, with your kissing and caressing and whispering his name, you help him forget.


	34. Salve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my sweet babies. Happy holidays!
> 
> I got a lot of questions about birth control last time. I was actually wondering when/if you’d ask. And the answer isn’t anything exciting. It’s just not something I particularly want to focus on in this story, the nitty gritty bodily function stuff. So you can just assume the Reader (or Snape, honestly, in a perfect world) takes magical birth control, and there’s really nothing to worry about. 
> 
> Also, while we’re on the topic, I personally think Snape’s pullout game is STROOONG (he’s one of the most controlled people in the wizarding world, guys) and he’d be extremely careful about getting you pregnant. Realistically, I don’t think he would want to pass on what he considers fucked up genes to a child, and I don’t think he thinks he’d be a good father. I don’t necessarily agree with him, I just think that’s how he’d think of it. Again, it’s not something I’m going to be necessarily focusing on.
> 
> The incredible JennoSama made me more fanart, because she's fucking AMAZING. I love it!! It's based on the Yule Ball chapters, but I wanted to post it here so you'd all see it. Follow her Tumblr!
> 
> Thank you so much, Jenno. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Link:
> 
> https://foreverflowercore.tumblr.com/post/638314323461259264/broken-silence-chapter-30-witchimage-harry
> 
> Speaking of JennoSama, I'm blatantly stealing an idea she gave me in the comments last chapter. She’ll recognize it for sure, and I love her for it. Hopefully I do it justice...
> 
> Smut and fluff heavy chapter, ladies and gents (like...probably too much smut). Stay tuned for more drama next time though. Remember that I love you. Like, I would fucking die for you. O_O
> 
> Happy Yule!

* * *

I love him, I love him,  
I love him, I love him.  
This time,  
I'm gonna keep it to myself.  
This time,  
I'm gonna keep me all to myself.  
And he makes me want to hurt myself again.

"Pagan Poetry" - Bjork  


* * *

Snape has to wait until the end of the weekend to find out what was stolen from his personal stores. Sunday marks the date of Alexandre Arseneau’s trial, and he is obligated to travel to London to attend it. You are something of a worried mess the day before as you help him make a thorough inventory of his ingredients. You’re convinced the Wizengamot will invade Snape’s mind and pry out, not only the experience with the boy, but evidence of this illicit affair. He’s tried to comfort you about this, and you’re clearly trying not to be a pain, but you’re constantly chewing at the insides of your cheeks, losing your train of thought and going into long spans of silence. Also, you mislabel at least three of his bottles.

He’s not complaining about your presence—even in your current anxious state, he prefers it when you are around. But after a while he has to take the glass jar from your hands and order you to sit behind his desk. You’re no help to him. In fact, you’re slowing the process down somewhat. He still hasn’t found anything missing, though to be fair there are hundreds of ingredients on these shelves, and he is obligated to count and weigh each one.

Snape glances up at you after placing dried Arnica onto the shelf beside a preserved clutch of Ashwinder eggs. You’re staring into space, absently chewing at your cuticles, lovely and worried. He shakes his head, almost scoffs. You look as if you’re expecting the world to come crashing down.

“I’m an Occlumens, [First name],” he reminds you for perhaps the dozenth time. Your eyes flick his way, and you nod distractedly. Then you’re silent for a moment, which he knows from experience does not mean you’ve accepted this.

Sure enough, after a pause you say, “Just...” You cut yourself off, probably aware you’re about to repeat yourself. Snape sighs, turning to face you fully.

“Just what?” he asks as patiently as he can. You shrug at him, smiling bashfully, clearly appreciating the attempt at endurance. 

“What if they’ve got someone good?” you ask. “Someone...better than you. Who can break down your walls.”

Snape smirks to himself. This particular skill, he is extremely confident in. “They’d have to be more powerful than the Dark Lord ,” he says gently. He’s avoided bringing this up so far, erring on assurances that they will not even use Legilimency (which he’s sure they won’t—he is not the one on trial here). But you’re forcing the issue.

The astonishment on your face though, and that flash of pain when his past is mentioned, makes him regret saying anything. But perhaps this will finally comfort you.

“The Dark Lord?” you ask. You’ve stopped calling him You-Know-Who, following Snape’s lead, and he prefers that. “He...”

“Invaded my mind,” Snape affirms. “Or tried to, countless times. Especially before he went after the Potters, when he thought, correctly, that my loyalties were wavering.”

“And you...held him off?”

“I’m still alive, am I not?” Snape watches your face—he enjoys seeing awe in your eyes, when you gaze at him like you can’t believe he exists. It never fails to ignite that warm feeling at the center of his chest, which he’s grown to rather like over the last few months. “I’ve practiced Occlumency since I was a boy. I’ve always hated the thought of someone else inside my head.”

You frown. “But  _ I  _ got in,” you argue. “And I'm shit at Legilimency!”

Snape nods. “To be fair, you caught me by surprise,” he says honestly. “I won’t be surprised this time, if it happens. And I was significantly...upset at the time.” He shrugs when your face falls back into concern, unconvinced. “But more importantly...I let you, [First name].” He grimaces. “I let you see that.”

You watch him silently for a long moment. Then you sit up straight and point at him. “You’d better be telling the truth, Sev.”

“Rest assured,” he replies flatly, “I tremble at the very  _ thought _ of lying to you again.”

You snort, finally smiling, finally relaxing. Snape smiles too.

* * *

He leaves the next day, Apparating from Hogsmeade, while you linger in the castle, a bundle of nervous energy. You believe that he can hold off a Legilimens, but that raises the next concern: what if Alex is acquitted? Will he come after you? Seek revenge?

Severus and Dumbledore seem convinced he’ll be convicted, however, and shipped to Nurmengard Castle, where prisoners of the French persuasion are usually kept. He won’t get a life sentence, since the spell didn’t actually connect with Severus (thank god) but he’ll be in for a good long while.

You try to comfort yourself with this, focusing your Sunday on more inventory in Severus’ office. You know at this point that he’s missing some lacewing flies, but you’re not sure what else. Locking yourself in his office is comforting though—it wraps you in his smell and allows you some peace and quiet after the chaos last week. 

Plus, it allows you to avoid George Weasley, who is back to being friendly and flirtatious. Obviously, it’s much better than having him mad at you, but knowing now how much he likes you—and what kissing him is like—you find yourself getting flustered in his presence. You don’t know how to act anymore. You can’t be too friendly, or he’ll think you like him back. But nor can you be cold toward him because you want to keep his friendship. It’s fucking weird, and it’s not his fault, and you hope you’ll get over it soon.

Another thing you’re thinking about on this quiet, studious Sunday is the prospect of telling Severus you’re in love with him. It’s eating at you, begging to be let out, but you dread it.

You can’t imagine his reaction, honestly. Anger, perhaps, or stern disapproval. Pulling away from you, telling you not to be stupid. Telling you not to love.

Whatever the case, he won’t take it well, of that much you’re certain. He’ll withdraw emotionally. Ice over and hide. Perhaps even break it off. Love is vulnerability, and he would rather die than be vulnerable.

Your feelings for him could ruin everything.

You can’t tell him, you decide. You have to wait for him to say it first.

But you wonder how long that will take. You wonder if he ever will.

You finish inventory in the late afternoon—you did, indeed, find which ingredients are missing, and it doesn’t really bode well—and spend the rest of the evening in his office, waiting for his return. He said he’d be back around five, but soon six o’clock rolls around, then seven. And you start getting worried.

When the clock strikes 8:30, you’re pacing back and forth in long laps around his chamber, biting your nails. This is bad. This is  _ terrible,  _ you’re sure of it. The Wizengamot must have searched his mind. He must not be as talented an Occlumens as he thinks, and they found something there. Something about you, kissing him, touching him, laughing with him, rolling naked between his sheets. And they, of course, would detain him for further questions, then send Dumbledore an owl. He would be fired immediately, not allowed back in the castle. 

You wonder if they’re already on their way for you. Should you try to run? Better than getting exposed and expelled, especially if they drag you to the Slytherin dorms to pack. Harper will be there, sneering and laughing behind her hands. Saying,  _ Of course the American girl would seduce the Potions Master. Probably for good grades—I always said she was too stupid to get the marks she did. Slut. _

In the middle of these thoughts, you hear voices coming down the hallway, and you jolt. One of the voices is Severus, but he’s got someone with him. Another man.

Your heart is suddenly pounding as they approach the office. Of course, Severus doesn’t know you’re still in here. And it would look very odd for them to open the locked door and find a student, waiting for her Potions Master after dark.

A key finds the lock, and you race for Severus’ desk, the only hiding place you can spot. You dive beneath it, into the space meant for his legs (mercifully covered on the other side by a panel of dark wood) just as the door creaks open.

“--as well as we could expect, in light of the circumstances,” Severus is saying. You hear the rustle of cloaks as he leads the other wizard inside, and you squeeze your eyes shut, sure they can hear your heart pounding.

“Yes,” comes Dumbledore’s mild voice (literally the worst person you could imagine). “I apologize again for the inconvenience, though, Severus. I thought it important that the boy faced the consequences for his actions, vindictive, perhaps, as that seems.”

“The apology is unnecessary,” Severus says, and there’s a moment of silence. Is he faltering? Is he looking around, wondering why the candles are lit in here? Noticing your bookbag on the ground in the corner?

Then you hear the wardrobe door open as he takes off his cloak, and he continues, “I was eager to see justice be done, as well.” There’s a slight smirk in his voice, so you assume the trial went well, and relief floods you. “You know how  _ vindictive _ I can be, myself.”

Dumbledore laughs softly. If you can trust your ears, he’s still over by the door, perhaps leaning against a chair. Which hopefully means he will leave soon. Severus, however, is closing the wardrobe door and pacing slowly toward his desk

“I assume Miss [Last name] will be pleased as well,” Dumbledore says. 

Severus presumably shrugs. “She certainly seemed anxious for it to be over,” he drawls, purposely trying to sound bored. He’s closer to the desk now, coming around behind it. “Though I doubt she’s  _ pleased _ about any of this.”

At this point, the chair is moved away from the desk, and you watch Severus’ looming black form come into view. He hasn’t noticed you yet, and you don’t want to startle him, so you just squish yourself as far from him as you can. He’s still looking up at Dumbledore as the headmaster speaks.

“Of course not,” says the old wizard, rather sadly. “An awful thing...How is she adjusting?”

At this point, Severus lowers himself into his chair and starts to say, “As far as I can tell...” But he trails off when his knees hit your shoulder.

He glances down, his face stoic and only vaguely surprised, to see you hunched under his desk, grinning sheepishly. Expression unwavering, he glances back up at Dumbledore, not seeming to process it for a moment. Then he doubletakes. His eyes meet yours again and widen slightly. You wave lamely. You can see the effort it takes to keep his face impassive.

All things considered, he does an excellent job. He furrows his brow for an instant, but then that lidded look of boredom returns, and he looks back toward the headmaster. He presses you further into the space under his desk with his knees, jamming you toward the back panel. You shift uncomfortably, frowning.

Severus clears his throat and continues as if nothing happened. “As far as I can tell, she’s doing fine.” His voice is somewhat clipped, but then it usually is. “Not that we are necessarily close enough to speak of it openly. I offered Pomona’s assistance...”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says thoughtfully, a smile in his voice. You squirm against Severus’ firm legs, pushing aside his knees until he reluctantly spreads his thighs wide for you. You slide yourself between them. Much more comfortable. “There are those among us who possess a singular fortitude of spirit. From what I have heard of her, Miss [Last name] is one of those lucky few.”

Severus grunts at that, and you can practically  _ hear _ him roll his eyes. You slide your hands up and down his thighs in retribution. He twitches under you, trying to nudge you aside with his knee, but you plant yourself.

“I’m positive the girl will be fine,” Severus says with no lack of scorn in his tone. Your hand creeps slowly up his leg, toward his crotch. You’re grinning wickedly. Finally paying him back for all his teasing in class.

“Good,” Dumbledore says. “Shall I inform her of tonight’s decision, or...?”

“I can do it,” Severus says. You reach the very innermost part of his thigh, about to cup what looks like it might be the beginnings of an erection, when his hand flies down below the desk to seize your fingers in a vice like grip.

“Very well,” Dumbledore says blithely, noticing nothing. “I’m sure she’d rather hear it from someone familiar.” Severus squeezes your fingers hard, a punishment. You tear them away from him, lean down and gently bite his knee. 

He grunts, kicking you away, and says in an amazingly normal tone, “Consider it done.”

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore says. There’s a beat, during which you dread him asking more questions about you. But he simply sighs. “Well, it’s been a long night. I suppose I had better retire.”

“Goodnight, headmaster,” Severus says, grasping your wandering hand again when it moves back to his thigh. 

“Goodnight,” Dumbledore replies pleasantly. You hear him sweep toward the door, then out of it. It clicks gently closed behind him.

Immediately, Severus wrenches his chair back, and his pale face stares down at you, anger etched in every line. You giggle at it for a moment—what’s he so mad about? Dumbledore didn’t notice a thing.

The next few things happen in very rapid succession. Severus flicks his wand twice toward the door, locking it and casting  _ Muffliato.  _ He pulls his chair farther out and leans against it. Then he seizes the back of your neck and pulls you out from under the desk, dragging you on top of him.

“You,” he says, covering your hand with his and guiding it down between his legs to make you rub the hardening bulge there, “are a  _ very _ bad girl, Miss [Last name].” 

You gasp as he pulls you further onto him, unthinking, and you straddle him, your knees braced against the chair on either side of his legs. He rocks his hips firmly upwards, moving into your hand while he keeps it pressed firmly against his bulge. The edges of a groan spill from his mouth. You feel him lengthen under his slacks, the outline of his turgid flesh filling your palm.

“Waiting under my desk,” he whispers with no lack of disgust. Still rubbing your palm forcibly against him, he uses his other hand to cup your waist, pulling your torso to his. He drops his head to your chest, nosing the fabric aside and biting at the soft, sensitive skin just above your bra cups. “Like a little slut.”

You gasp as he drags down your bra with his teeth, only to latch them around one nipple. “I didn’t know it’d turn you on this much,” you tease, one hand fisting into his hair as he bows your body backwards, the small of your back hitting the edge of his desk just behind you.

He slaps your ass immediately in chastisement, pulling you firmly against him. “That could have been catastrophic,” he says, and you see the real flash of anger in his eyes. So it did piss him off, but it also turned him on. You’ve been shown more than once that he thinks semi-public displays of lust and affection are hot, so you’re not really surprised. He slaps your ass again, a bit harder, staring you intently in the eye.  _ “Never  _ do it again.”

“I didn’t know you’d bring Dumbledore back!” you say.

“Shut up,” he replies immediately, sneering, a hand wrapping around your throat. “You’re going to pay for it. Now.”

“Ooh, I’m so  _ scared,”  _ you snap back. Immediately, Severus’s mouth slams against yours, and he grips both of your thighs in either hand. Then, surprising you, he smoothly rises to his feet, taking you up with him. You squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep from falling, but he quickly balances your ass back against his desk and leans over you.

You settle back on your elbows, your legs bent on either side of him, and he makes quick work of your clothes—skirt pushed up, blouse unbuttoned. He inhales deeply into your hair, broad hands moving across your stomach and breasts, dipping lower, sliding across your underwear.

You gasp, reaching forward to clutch at his shoulders while his fingers work their wicked magic, his face pressed close to yours, his lips parted in a half-smirk as he watches your reaction. You turn your face to kiss him and reach under his chin to unbutton his high-collared jacket.

And he lets you. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it, taking Severus’ clothes off. The way he sighs when the heavy jacket is finally cast aside, like he’s relieved of a constrictive burden, or the way he shivers in pleasure when you run your fingers along the pale skin of his chest. You love watching him shirtless, waist tapering into a narrow point at the belt of his low-slung trousers, the way his hip bones jut out on either side of his firm stomach. The contrast of all that pale skin against his black hair and eyes.

It takes a moment to realize you’re staring, tracing your fingers up and down his stomach, and his hand has come to a stop between your legs. You glance up to find him watching you, annoyed. You shrug.

“You’re hot,” you say simply. Severus rolls his eyes, and his hand is at your throat again. You grin, inhaling sharply as he pulls you forward to kiss you, warm and commanding.

You keep running your hands along his chest, but he doesn’t return his attention to the space between your thighs. Instead, after only a few minutes, he reaches up and grabs both of your wrists in his. He firmly tugs you against him, and you realize it’s meant to spur you on—you’re supposed to fight him a little.

So you do, trying to struggle away. His parted lips drop down to your jawline, then your throat, licking and sucking as you squirm against him, as he subdues you at every turn. It reminds you beautifully how much stronger he is than you, how much power he has. 

He forces both wrists into one hand, holding them together even as you fight it, and gives you a solid bite where your neck meets your shoulder, making you cry out. You wrap your legs around his waist again, tugging him against you with them, and he accommodates almost lazily, taking a small step. But he’s leaning back, distracted, and you frown. What’s the deal?

Still holding your wrists in one hand, Severus reaches down beside you to his desk drawer. He opens it and lifts something out—green striped fabric, long and silky.

Your tie. You never got it back after George interrupted you on Friday.

You’re grinning immediately, and Severus glances at you, a black eyebrow lifting. You can tell his instant urge is to put it back in the drawer—you’re acting too eager. 

So you wipe the smile off your face and try to pout instead, squirming harder. Severus’ look immediately grows sly, and he wrenches your wrists toward him. “No,” you whine.

“No?” Severus repeats, winding your tie between his pale fingers. Then, suddenly, he grips your chin with that same hand, that palm-full of silk, and tugs your face toward him. “Did you say no to me?” he whispers between ragged breaths, soft and dangerous.

In lieu of a response, you stick your tongue out and glare, and Severus grunts angrily, fingers tightening. Then he yanks your wrists up and starts winding the tie around them. You fight for the sport of it, and because every time you struggle he jerks you around harder, until you’re red and breathless, and your wrists are bound tightly together.

Severus yanks up on the trailing end of the tie, forcing your bound hands up toward your face, palms pressed together like you’re praying. He smirks at the control he has over you, and you kick your legs out on either side of him, which only makes him force his body closer to yours.

Then Severus quickly jerks your hands above your head, simultaneously pressing you backwards against the desk. You lose your breath as you go down, suddenly lying beneath him, and while he uses one hand to keep yours above your head, his other goes between your bodies to work at his belt.

You twitch as his mouth moves to your breast, his tongue flicking against your nipple, wanting to reach down and touch him. You feel him open his pants, push aside his briefs, and you growl when he starts teasing you, rubbing himself against your open thighs, against your underwear, yet never pressing in. You twist against the tie, and his grip on it tightens. He leans back to look at you, eyes shining wickedly.

“I think I like you like this,” he says. You open your mouth to respond, but the hand that was moving between your bodies comes up to grip your cheeks, popping his finger between your lips. You groan instead as he pumps it back and forth, flicking it with your tongue. “Perhaps we’ll try a gag next time.”

You glare and stop swirling your tongue around his finger, planning to bite it instead, but he seems to know. He takes his finger from your mouth just before you clamp down, casting a very disapproving look.

“Yes,” he muses. “We’ll definitely need a gag.”

“Try it,” you say, only to gasp when his hand moves back down, stroking you roughly, pulling your underwear aside. Still, after a moment to get used to the sensation, you meet his eye. “I  _ dare  _ you.”

“Do you?” Severus replies, amazingly mildly, bringing his face close to yours, resting your foreheads together. He’s breathing heavily, guiding himself toward your core, and you press back, eager. “I’d shut that pretty mouth, if I were you.”

“Make me,” you reply.

So Severus shoves into you, still forcing your arms above your head, his stomach pressed firmly against yours as you stretch out on the desk. You moan wildly, and he lifts his head to watch you, mouth slightly open as his hips start working, rutting back and forth, gaining speed.

The tie creaks around your wrist as he tightens his grip on it, pulling your arms out straight, stretching them. His other hand clenches at your hipbones, thin fingers digging into your soft skin. His teeth are gritted, his black eyes intense, and he brings your faces close, open mouths moving against each other.

You lurch up to kiss him, and he groans in response, eyebrows furrowing as his hands run up and down your thighs. He pushes your legs back dominantly, spreading them wider until you feel helpless beneath him, and you’re just gripping his hair and trying to hold on.

Suddenly, Severus stops, and you cry out in surprise. He pulls back from you fully, leaving you empty, and you almost decide to complain before he bends down and kisses your quivering stomach. His mouth moves lower, and you gasp as his tongue sweeps out, tasting you, swirling around your sensitive nub.

His mouth is a little intense after all the thrusting and stimulation, and you cry out. He glances up to you, a smirk filling his black eyes, and his kisses slow, swiping his tongue up and down in long, languorous waves. And soon you’re relaxing under him,  _ melting _ under him, under the softness of his lips and how well he knows you. How well he pays attention to what you want and does everything he can to give it to you.

Your abs contract and tighten, feeling a wave of pleasure, that tingling in your toes, and you fist your bound hands in his hair. “Severus,” you whisper, breath hitching, feeling his mouth do its magical work. “Sev...”

And he stops, pulling back. You stop too—stop in your tracks, utterly shocked as he rears back and rises to his feet. A bit affronted, actually. Your mouth opens, and when he catches sight of your expression, the bastard smirks so hard you're sure his face will stay that way.

“Disappointed, [Last name]?” he says softly, extremely smug. You swing at him with your bound wrists, but he easily catches them.

“You’re such a dick!” you exclaim, and he immediately tugs your wrists toward him, wrenching you off the table. His look has darkened—cruel and exacting concentration now fills his eyes, and it gives you a thrill of both fear and excitement.

Severus spins you around and shoves you toward the desk, forcing you over it. You catch yourself on your elbows, and he presses against you, flipping up your skirt and wrenching down your underwear. 

“You will watch. Your. Tongue,” he orders, leaning down to whisper into your ear. Then his massive hand comes down on your ass, a smack that rings through the dungeon. You cry out loudly, and he spanks you again. “Shut up,” he says, reaching out to hook his forearm firmly around throat. He pulls you back toward him, arching your back, cutting off air.

And suddenly he’s inside you again, bottoming out, and you cry out again, and his solid arm tightens reflexively, blue veins bulging under white skin. His hips pick up speed, and you feel your eyes roll back in your head as he tilts your head back further. Then he spanks you again and simultaneously flexes harder against your neck, and you feel a tear slide across your cheek. But, like...a good tear.

“Is this what does it?” he whispers, mouth moving along your ear, his rhythm getting faster and faster. “This is what makes you shut that mouth of yours?” You moan incoherently, more tears streaming down your face, and he spanks you again, harder than before. “Always talking back.” Another slap, and his voice is getting ragged, and you’re feeling it too—that hot, red flame in your belly fanning itself into an inferno. “Isn’t this better, when you just shut up and do as I say?” he asks. “Isn’t this so. Much. Better?”

You push yourself up on your hands, leaning back toward him, and his forehead nestles in the space between your shoulder blades. His body is bowed gracefully, every muscle taught, and you hear him panting as his fingers clutch your hipbones, as he slams rapidly into you. You moan your response, clenching around him, and suddenly a powerful rush of pleasure is filling you from your toes to the top of your head. You vaguely hear yourself crying out his name as it roars over you, as your makeup runs down your cheeks and your body bucks helplessly against him. 

“Yes, Merlin, that’s good,” he hisses, smacking you again, harder than ever. Then again, then again. Then his long fingers claw into the flesh of your ass and he pushes deep, thrusting only a few more times before letting out a guttural, orgasmic groan.

You collapse forward onto the desk once he stops moving, breathing heavily, letting out a low huff of laughter. Severus leans against you for a long moment, damp with sweat and wonderfully warm, the hand that was just smacking your ass now gentle, rubbing your red skin.

“Jesus,” you breathe, trying to catch your breath.

“I didn’t hurt you?” he asks, voice throaty and exhausted.

You giggle. “In a good way.” You like it when he gets that out of control and rough.

You hear him chuckle in return and pull on your shoulder to turn you around. He takes the tie from your wrists, then bundles you to his warm, bare chest and drags you backwards into his chair with him. You laugh, curling up on his lap, leaning your head against his collarbone. His black hair tickles your forehead, and he smells like sex and candles and coriander, and when he turns to kiss your forehead, his lips are warm and lazy. And you sink into utter, perfect contentment. This is a dream. This is heaven.

You lazily trace the scare just below the hollow of his throat, a crescent-shaped strip of white he once told you he got while dueling in his seventh year here. If you hadn’t seen it in his memories, you wouldn’t be able to imagine him as a student, wearing a uniform. Black suits him so perfectly, it’s almost a funny thought.

There’s a long moment of silence, then Severus leans back to look at your face. His eyes are thoughtful, but there’s a hint of disapproval around his mouth.

“What?”

“What were you doing in here?” he asks. “It’s late.”

“Oh,” you say, smiling and nuzzling closer to him. His broad hand slides beneath your still-gaping shirt to stroke the warm skin of your waist. “It was a surprise. I did your inventory.”

“My inventory,” he repeats, seeming less than grateful, and you assume he’s already planning to redo it just to make sure you didn’t make any mistakes.

“You can check my work,” you say challengingly. “But I promise, it’s perfect.”

“And what did you find missing?”

“Lacewing flies,” you say. “And Boomslang skin.” Severus tenses beneath you, his fingers stilling at your hips, and you nod. “Someone’s making—”

“Polyjuice Potion,” you both say at the same time, and Severus nods, mouth firm, eyes angry.

“Potter,” he snarls.

“What would Potter need with Polyjuice Potion?” you ask, and he glances at you, then shrugs.

“He brewed in his second year, too,” he replies. “I never found out why then, either.”

“What a weird kid,” you muse, and he glances at you wryly, his hand moving back and forth in comforting strokes against your bare stomach. “Maybe it has something to do with the tournament. The second task is coming up.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nefarious,” Severus replies, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the chair in an expression of utter exhaustion. You giggle, nestling into him, and he exhales deeply.

“Are you gonna talk to him?”

“I don’t have a choice,” he says, cracking an eye to look at you. His face grows very serious, and he sits upright, pulling you with him. “Potter was in my office that night, [First name],” he says. “And you were in my bed.” He points to the corner, only about ten feet away, where his bedroom door is covered by the tapestry. “That is entirely too close for comfort. Suppose he heard something.” Severus shakes his head. “My students don’t know where my personal chambers are, but certain...noises would make it fairly evident.”

You duck your head, nodding, the idea making you uncomfortable. “What will you say to him?”

“I’ll threaten him,” Severus replies simply, and you lean away from him, affronted. He raises his eyebrows as if he doesn’t see the problem. “I have to assure he doesn’t sneak in here, anymore.”

“Threatening a fourteen-year-old,” you repeat blankly.

Severus rolls his eyes. “Anything to protect us,” he says softly, and he reaches up to kiss you.

His words echo through you as his mouth sweeps over yours, slightly open, slow and affectionate. Deep, instinctive warmth surges through you—the sentiment rings with sweetness you rarely hear from him. And he sounded so...genuine. Would he really do  _ anything? _

You lean back, toying with a strand of his hair, looking at him fondly. You won’t ask him, you decide. You’ll pretend his words didn’t mean as much as they did.

“How was the trial?” you ask instead.

“Tedious,” he replies. “They kept me there for hours before I gave testimony. And no,” he glances at you, amused. “They did not use Legilimency.” You smile, shrug, and he continues, “Arseneau was convicted. Seven years in Nurmengard. Appropriate, they thought, for a boy his age.” He sneers. “I would have preferred a longer sentence, but...” He shrugs. “In the end, it was fairly open and shut.”

“So what took you?” you ask. “You said you’d be back earlier...”

“Ah.” Severus' brows furrow and he holds up a finger as if you reminded him of something.

“What?” you ask, and he shifts forward, gently sliding you off his lap. He stands while you drop back into the chair, idly buttoning up your shirt, and he approaches his wardrobe, opening it to dig in the pockets of his cloak.

When he turns back to you, he’s holding a small black box. Your eyes light up when you see it—if that’s not a jewelry gift box, you don’t know what is. It makes your heart pound. Is your relationship at that point, that he’s buying you jewelry? It seems romantic and...particularly grown-up, doesn’t it?

He comes back to stand in front of you and regards you for a moment through lidded eyes, as if appraising whether he should give you the gift after all. When you sit up, grinning eagerly, he finally flicks his wrist out and hands it to you, the tiniest smirk lifting the corners of his lips.

“What’s the occasion?” you ask, taking the box. 

Severus shrugs. “We missed Valentines.”

You glance up at him, quirking an eyebrow. You had, indeed, been on your little “break” during the holiday, but you honestly assumed he wouldn’t celebrate it, even if you weren’t.

“I didn’t peg you for a romantic,” you say softly, smiling, running your fingers across the box’s polished black wood. 

Severus rolls his eyes. “I’m not,” he replies, moving away. “But I saw it in London and...” He shrugs. “Just open it.”

Your smile goes soft and dreamy, and you slowly open the box, wanting to make this moment last. The inside is lined with black silk, rich and elegant (you’re coming to realize that Severus has somewhat expensive tastes.) 

You gasp when it’s fully open. A beautiful bracelet rests on the little pillow inside, three delicate silver strands weaving intricately around each other. Dangling from the clasp is a tiny silver charm. You pick it up, examining it, and smile. It’s the letter “S.”

“Sev,” you breathe, staring up at him. His lip twitches, and he steps toward you, taking the bracelet from you and unclasping it. You allow him to loop it around your wrist and latch it there. You lift your arm up to your eyes, examining the pretty way the jewelry falls against your skin. It’s sophisticated and lovely, and you’ll never take it off.

You giggle and grab Severus’ long fingers and pull him down against you, kissing him fiercely. “I love it,” you whisper, feeling him chuckle against you, press kisses back. “I love it, I love it...” With your face buried in his hair, taking in his smell, crushed by the warm, comforting weight of his body, you consider for a moment how easy it would be to throw an  _ I love  _ **_you_ ** in there. He might not even notice, or if he reacts badly, you could chalk it up to emotion.

But you don’t. You don’t want to ruin the moment.

“You’re so fucking good at presents!” you say instead, leaning back and holding his face between your hands. You love the feel of the thin skin over his sharp jawline and the roughness of the stubble there, which you can’t actually see, can only feel.

Severus is smiling, but his black eyes dart away from you. “I may have ulterior motives,” he says lowly, standing straight again. You frown, and he shrugs. “It’s enchanted.” He withdraws his wand, and you sit up straighter as he kneels down beside you. You watch him, unsure whether to feel eager or worried, and he glances at you as he places the tip of the wand on the bracelet’s latch. “If you agree, I’ll enchant the closure. You won’t be able to take it off, unless one of us says the counterspell.” You lean back, surprised. It feels a bit like an engagement ring when he puts it that way. Severus watches your reaction, expression guarded. “You can refuse, of course,” he says, low baritone hiding every ounce of emotion—for all the world, he sounds like he doesn’t care either way.

“But you want me to?” you ask, somewhat breathless. This feels...significant. This feels like a commitment.

Severus shrugs again, almost grimacing, but finally manages to say, “Yes. I want you to. Obviously, you could say the counterspell at any time, so it’s not as if you’d ever be...  _ trapped. _ But while you wore it, it would...mark you as mine.”

A mix of emotions fills you at the sentiment. On the one hand, excitement, pleasure and warmth. You like the possessiveness and dominance and control, especially as it’s so safe—after all, you have the option at any time to take off the bracelet. You like the idea of being marked as his, and you look forward to the pleasure of wearing it in public, showing off this delicious secret.

On the other hand, you worry that this stems from Severus mistrusting you. He’s still not over the whole George Weasley debacle, you can tell—though he hasn’t made you suffer for it. He simply dislikes it any time the boy is brought up. And you worry this bracelet is more a reminder to you than to other people, who you “belong” to.

All the same, it only takes a moment to think before you look into Severus’ eyes and nod. “Do it,” you say.

Immediately, Severus reaches out and clasps the back of your neck to drag your face against his, pressing a firm and passionate kiss against your lips. You can feel his gratitude and relief in it, and you open your eyes to see the deep furrow between his brows. He means this kiss. Really means it.

Finally, Severus pulls back and once again presses the tip of his wand against the clasp of the bracelet around your wrist. He glances up at you for a fleeting moment before returning concentration to the bracelet. Then he whispers,  _ “Salve.”  _ You smile gently at the simplicity of the spell—it just means “hello.”

Golden light suddenly flows from the bracelet’s clasp and races along every filigree strand, weaving bright trails around themselves that leave their dark memories behind your lids when you close your eyes. The braided light disappears after only a few seconds, but the energy behind it is still there, wrapped around your wrist. The bracelet feels heavier than it was, more substantial. And it’s warm. The tiny “S” charm glints expressively in the dim candlelight.

“The counterspell is  _ vale,”  _ Severus whispers, still looking at the bracelet intensely. You wonder if he realizes, like you do, what a bond this represents. You wonder if he means it that way.

“Latin for goodbye,” you say, nodding, the very idea making you unaccountably sad. You smile at him. “Let’s try to avoid using it.”

Severus returns the smile gently, something sad behind his eyes, and reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “For as long as we can,” he says quietly.

And though perhaps he doesn’t mean it this way—and perhaps he doesn’t mean the bracelet this way, either—it feels like a promise.


	35. The Second Task and Birthday Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's back, ya'll! Sorry this took so long. Not gonna lie though, the next chap might take just as long...again, I don't have anything prewritten. So don't be worried if it takes a while!
> 
> Also, LadyoftheWesternLands, did I have a fever dream or did you post more fanart? I can't find it! I'd like to feature it at the top of the chapter. Please repost!
> 
> I love you all so much. Enjoy!

* * *

_Then I see you,  
_ _You’re walking ‘cross the campus.  
_ _Cruel professor  
_ _Studying romances,  
_ _How am I supposed to pretend  
_ _I never want to see you again?_

"Campus" - Vampire Weekend

* * *

On the morning of the Triwizard Tournament’s second task, you wake up early. You promised Fred and George you’d meet up with them beforehand in the Entrance Hall, and you eagerly do so. They know Harry Potter personally—their younger brother, Ron, is his best friend—and you’ve been wanting to get insight on the Chosen One from someone besides the Potions Master. It amazes you that the kid doesn’t even know as much about his parents as you do at this point (or so Severus says). It’s an odd feeling. And you wonder if Severus’ view of him is at all accurate. You’re inclined to dislike him out of sheer solidarity, but you’re not sure that’s the right way to look at it.

“Harry’s a good bloke,” George says as you make your way outside toward the lake, one boy on either side of you. The twins’ cheeks and noses are pink from the cold, freckles standing out sharply, and they wear identical knit beanies over their shaggy hair. Fucking adorable.

“Bit reckless,” Fred says, nodding. “But he’s got heart.”

“Thank god for Hermione,” George agrees. “If she wasn’t around, Ron _and_ him would’ve kicked the bucket ages ago.”

“Hermione Granger?” you say. You know the girl by reputation only. Severus calls her an “insufferable know-it-all.”

“They’re inseparable, those three,” Fred says, smirking. 

A smirk slides across George’s face too, and he wrinkles his nose. “Ron’s head over heels.”

“Don’t tell him we told you, though,” Fred adds, winking. You laugh, and George bumps his hip against yours, which jostles the satchel slung around his shoulder. Something clunks around inside, and you turn to stare. The bag is veritably _bursting._

“What do you have in there?” you ask, poking the canvas fabric. Both twins’ mouths immediately split into identically mischievous grins.

“Thought we’d take advantage of such a large gathering,” George says, dropping his voice to a whisper. 

“Do a little business,” his brother adds, and the boys stop to show you, dragging you to the side of the tree-lined path so you’re not in the way of the other students bustling toward the water. 

George winks while he undoes the latches of his satchel and lifts the flap to show you the contents, glancing around shiftily like he’s got illegal drugs inside. Instead, however, you see a mound of what looks like wands of all shapes and sizes, and various quills. 

“Go on,” George urges, nodding that you should take something. 

You pick up a long, willowy wand and reflexively give it a swish. Instantly, it lets off a loud zipping noise and starts sparking at the end like a firecracker. You shriek and drop it, watching it burn itself up in the grass, an explosion of different colored flares and flames.

The twins are laughing good-naturedly at your shock, pleased by their own cleverness, and you laugh along, gently shoving George in the shoulder—as is a typical practice of his, he pretends it’s a much harder shove than it was and propels himself backwards to slam dramatically into a tree.

“Weasley’s Weird Wands,” Fred says proudly, stamping out the last of the sparks in the dewy grass. His smile slips a little, and he shrugs. “Working title. Point is, we’ve got hundreds, and about a dozen different varieties.”

They’re aspiring businessmen, they tell you—the plan is to open up their own joke shop one day, filled to bursting with their inventions, and frankly they’ve already got a headstart on the process.

“Try this one,” George says, digging through his satchel to hand you a redwood wand. You catch the roll of Fred’s eyes just before you wave it. It turns into a long-stemmed rose in your hand.

“This is amazing, guys,” you laugh, running the petals gently along your cheek. It’s a real, living flower. 

“These quills are supposed to correct bad spelling,” Fred says, digging into his own satchel to show you.

While he does this, George gently takes the rose from you and removes most of its stem. Then he pushes your hair back and tucks the red bud behind your ear. You flush furiously and manage a strained smile before turning back to Fred and the quill he’s holding out.

“We haven’t perfected them, yet,” George says, shrugging. “It’s why they’re on sale.”

“Speaking of which,” Fred says, eyes twinkling, “you owe us a galleon.” You frown. “I mean, that’s two wands, isn’t it?”

 _“Eight sickles_ per wand?” you ask, pretending to be horrified. The boys laugh and steer you back onto the path amidst excited students. You fumble into your pocket for your coin purse, more than willing to pay. “This is highway fucking robbery!”

“Only joking, [Last name],” Fred says, pushing your money away.

“Me too,” you say, forcibly placing not one but two galleons in his hand. “Take it. Consider me an investor.” 

Fred grins, pocketing the coins. “Thanks, love.”

“If only there was a way to make the wands more than single use,” you muse.

“We’re working on it, trust me,” George says. 

“But it’s harder than it sounds,” Fred adds. He’s digging in his satchel again while you walk, a grin starting around his full lips.

“I bet,” you say, touching the flower behind your ear. The bracelet around your wrist, the one Sev gave you, tinkles prettily when your hand moves up, and it makes you suddenly guilty. You glance around nervously for Severus. Emotions war inside—you want to see him, but you don’t want him to see you with the twins, or to see you wearing a rose from George in your hair. But you also can’t exactly take the flower out of your hair without offending your friend.

Neither twin takes note of your sudden concern, walking on either side of you, chattering excitedly about selling the wands and quills at the task. 

“We just need a little capital,” Fred says, looking determined. “Then we’d really kick off.”

“And we’d have the gold, too,” George says. “If not for that Bagman—”

“Oi!” Fred interrupts, and George stops speaking, grimacing. 

You glance back and forth between the twins curiously. “If not for Bagman?” you ask.

George shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing,” he says. “Forget it.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Fred nudges you, and you turn to see him holding out a wrapped candy. “Sweet, [Last name]?”

Shrugging, you start to reach for it. But this time it’s George’s turn to exclaim, “Oi!” as he slaps the treat from his brother’s hand. Fred laughs, swooping to pick it up, and George bundles you protectively to his side, his arm around your waist.

“Sorry, sorry,” Fred says, still chuckling. 

“We said the girls are off limits, didn’t we?” George says.

“Right, right. I know,” says Fred.

“How about I slip Angelina a Canary Custard, see how you like it?” George adds. 

“Alright!” Fred is waving him off, rolling his eyes. “I get it. Anyway, it was just a Blood Blisterpod.”

You stare back and forth between them, confused, then turn an accusatory glare at Fred. “Were you trying to poison me?” 

He throws you an amused glance. “Apparently not, with George here defending your honor.”

You roll your eyes. Note to self: never accept sweets from Fred Weasley. Also, what’s with you being one of “the girls”? Angelina is Fred’s girlfriend. You’re not George’s girl, and he _knows_ that. It irritates you as much as you find it sweet.

“After I invested in your business too...” you grumble, and Fred laughs.

Conversation turns back to the task as you get closer to the Black Lake, weaving between throngs of excited students. Fred and George seem pretty confident that Potter will come out on top, and you nod along—though if what Severus says is true, the kid is a mediocre wizard at best. Still, you want to watch and come to your own conclusions.

The stands from the first task seem to have been moved to the edge of the lake, and you follow the Weasley boys up into the Gryffindor section. They tell you they plan on making the rounds to all the houses, so you figure you’ll just tag along until they reach Slytherin.

Truthfully, you’re excited to actually _watch_ a task. Though the mirror-black surface of the lake makes you wonder exactly what the champions will be doing—if it’s underwater, no one will actually be able to _watch_ anything. 

Still, being up in the stands is presumably better than being under them, getting railed by your teacher. Well, you suppose, not _better—_ you’d actually probably prefer it—but certainly more appropriate. And you and Sev decided to make very public appearances at the second task to make up for your absences at the first. Hence your house tour with the Weasleys, and Severus’s prominent front-row seat in the teachers’ box. You look across the stands and smile at the sight of his all-black figure there.

Fred and George waste no time in selling their wares to their classmates, and after a few minutes, you bump into their little sister, Ginny—a pretty third year with wavy red hair. She gives you an appraising once-over when George introduces you, and she’s a bit cool toward you. Not rude, just not overly friendly. You can’t blame her for the frosty attitude of course—if a girl treated your brother the way you’ve treated George (and assuming she only knows the half of it) you’d be significantly more than frosty. You’d probably be actively hostile. So, if we think about it, Ginny’s actually being quite generous.

George seems to want to extricate you from Ginny’s piercing gaze as soon as possible though, so he gives her shit about dating some Ravenclaw named Michael Corner to distract her, and he pulls you away. 

Just before you’re out of earshot, you catch Fred saying to her, “Don’t scare her off, Gin. She’s alright, really.” And you catch Ginny’s snort and eye roll.

So it seems like George isn’t the only one you need to make things up to. You forget sometimes that he has his whole family behind him—if his little sister is any indication, they’re fiercely protective of each other. Which is wonderful, but also a bit worrisome. The Weasley clan is popular at Hogwarts. If you fuck up again, make George sad...It could make you a social pariah. 

“Forget about her,” George suddenly whispers into your ear, leaning over and grinning. You start, realizing you’ve been silent for at least a minute, considering all of this. “Ginny never likes the girls me and Fred bring around.” He shrugs, grins. “Besides Angelina, but we think that’s just because she wants to be on the Quidditch team.”

“She knows we’re just friends, right?” you ask, wanting to remind _him_ of the fact, too.

George nods easily, seemingly unaffected, then laughs. “I think that’s part of the problem,” he says, glancing over to you and winking. “Who in their right mind would reject me? She assumes you’re insane. Or evil.” He grins. “She assumes your father was a Dementor, and your mother was a manticore.”

“Other way around,” you reply dryly, craning over the crowd to see if the task has started yet. Krum, Diggory and Delacour are waiting by the water’s edge, but there’s no sign of Potter.

George laughs, giving your shoulders a squeeze. “She’ll warm up to you.”

Fred rejoins you after a few minutes, and you continue your slow circuit of the stands. You feel the tension climb in the air as the minutes tick down—Harry Potter is late. There’s only ten minutes till the task starts. Then five. Then three. And he still doesn’t appear.

You don’t blame him. If you were fourteen years old, being asked to do these tasks, you’d simply drop out and hide forever in shame. Hell, it’s what you’d do if it happened to you _this_ year.

But just as the crowd is buzzing about what this could mean, whether Potter will be disqualified, the boy appears. He’s sprinting down the lawn toward the judges, and the entire Gryffindor section bursts into applause at his approach. Fred and George whoop, and George lifts you up on the bench when the row in front of you surges to their feet and obstructs your view. Not that there’s much to see. The four champions line up at the waterline, Ludo Bagman puts his wand to his throat, and the countdown to the start of the task begins.

At the blast of the whistle, the champions move into the water (which has to be frigid—it’s the end of February.) Krum does a tricky bit of transfiguration, turning his head into a shark and leaving his body human. Diggory and Delacour do what you would do if someone asked you to survive under water for an hour—a Bubble-Head Charm.

And Potter does something...kind of fucking amazing. He wades slowly into the water, a little after the others, stuffing something green and slimy into his mouth. You recognize it immediately, given the context. Gillyweed.

You have to laugh as titters and snickers ring out in the stands, some of the Slytherins straight-up jeering. He looks pretty pathetic, the poor kid, standing still and shivering in the water. But that’s not why you’re laughing. After all, where the fuck did he get gillyweed?

You have to assume, when you get back to the castle, you’ll find Severus’ stores depleted of a certain aquatic plant. Maybe that’s why he was late—doing a little thieving.

“It’s not funny,” Fred says, shooting a very dirty look at a few snickering second years. He casts the look at you as well, and you shake your head.

“I’m not laughing because he looks stupid,” you say. “I’m laughing because that kid is a fucking genius.”

“What’s that mean?” George asks. And you nod out to Harry, who suddenly claps a hand to his neck—where gills are doubtlessly sprouting up under his fingers. Then he dives gracefully into the water. 

You lean down and explain to the boys what they just saw, and they lead a bracing round of applause when Potter sinks beneath the surface and doesn’t immediately come back up. Fred and George look completely delighted by this.

“Gillyweed!” Fred cheers, waving one of the trick wands, which turns into a little flag stamped with the Hogwarts crest.

The faculty figured out how to make the task interesting to watch, apparently—projected onto the lake’s smooth black surface are four little dots, each a different color, each representing one of the champions as they move around the lake floor. There are also symbols denoting various obstacles—grindylows, boiling underwater vents, merpeople, the giant squid itself—scattered around the map. You watch curiously as the Delacour dot passes dangerously close to a shrake concealed in the seaweed.

Soon, however, Fred and George pull you along to continue their sales. They’re making fistfuls of gold, and the wands are more than half depleted by the time you reach the Ravenclaw section. The sparkler wands seem to be especially popular, as are the spell-check quills (even though they don’t work perfectly quite yet).

Fred is practically glowing, and George is bouncing around all over the place, even more hyper than you’re used to. Neither boy can stop moving and talking and laughing, their excitement uncontainable. They introduce you to at least a hundred people—somehow, they know everyone by name—and you smile and wave and giggle. 

You’re getting exhausted when you finally move into the Slytherin section, eager by now to find Colin and Brenna and leave the Weasley twins to their manic money collection. You glance longingly over at Severus’ dark figure in the teacher’s stands. This is exactly why you couldn’t date George. His company has something of a time limit, especially when he’s in moods like this.

Even surrounded by their rival house, the twins are known and liked by pretty much everyone. The Slytherin Quidditch team steers clear though, and Fred glares daggers at that Draco Malfoy kid, who sneers and looks away. Fred decides he needs more than that, however, and starts to head toward him. You can’t imagine it’s to do anything but pick a fight.

You grab him by the arm, holding him back. “Leave him,” you plead. 

Fred turns toward you with a look of shock. “Oh, come off it,” he says. “Don’t say you like the little wanker.”

“We knew you were a poor judge of character, [First name],” George says. “But not _that_ poor.”

You laugh. “Never met the guy,” you say, and you motion to the dark skinned kid sitting next to him, regarding your conversation with cool, hooded eyes. “But he’s friends with Blaise Zabini.” The boys throw you looks like _so what?_ So you continue, “That’s Benji’s little brother, and I’ve sworn to be nice to him.”

“Yeah, _but,”_ George wheedles, slinging an arm around your shoulders, “you’re not speaking to Benji Zabini at the moment, are you?” He quirks an eyebrow. “Or did you make up?”

“No,” you say, almost laughing at how badly the twins want to start a fight with a fourteen-year-old. “But that’s even more of a reason to leave him be.”

“What if we got Malfoy alone?” Fred asks, withdrawing a few brightly-wrapped candies from his pockets. “Could we give him one of these _then?”_

You shrug, laughing. “As long as Blaise doesn’t—”

“Well, well, [Last name] and the Weasleys,” a voice says from behind. “Why am I not surprised?”

The three of you turn to find Harper Hollingsworth flanked by her own pair of twins—Merryweather and Valeria Gray. 

You smile, falsely sweet. “Harper,” you say. “Just who I wanted to see. Fred’s handing out candy.”

Fred glances at you, curious, and when you nod his grin widens, matched identically by George on your other side. He holds out his hand to the girls, offering the treats.

Harper’s hooded eyes flick appraisingly over the candy, a haughty look of distaste crossing her face. When Valeria (you think it’s Valeria, anyway) reaches forward to take one, Harper stops her with a cool hand on her arm.

“No,” she says, looking back and forth between the Weasley twins. “Don’t think we haven’t heard of you two.” Her tone is sugary sweet as her eyes snap incisively back to you. “Joined the rabble then, have you?”

“Rabble!” Fred says jovially, clearly finding the insult delightful. “Hear that, George?”

“[First name]’s been rabble since day one,” George adds, also barely keeping back a laugh. “Where’ve you been?”

“She’s the roommate, yeah?” Fred asks, glancing at you significantly, and you nod. You’ve told them more than once how much you despise this girl. “Er...Heather, was it?”

“Harper,” Harper snaps

“Whatever,” Fred says immediately, which makes you snort.

Harper’s face has paled with anger during this conversation, but she seems determined to remain passively aggressive. “I’ve heard you’re selling trick wands,” she says loftily. 

Behind her, Valeria Gray _tsks_ and her sister says, “Aren’t those against the rules?”

“I think they are,” Harper says, turning back to you with an expression like _what a surprise!_ “Imagine if Professor Snape heard about this.” She grins at you evilly, as if you should be shitting your pants. “His _star pupil_ selling trick wands.”

You can’t help but snort. “First of all,” you say, “I’m not selling anything.”

“That’s on us,” George agrees, beaming. You can tell your trio’s unabashed refusal to stop smiling is irritating her, and it just makes you smile wider.

“Second,” you say, “Terrence Zimmer is Snape’s star pupil. Which I’m not surprised you don’t know, given that you didn’t place into Advanced Potions.” Harper’s smile slips—Severus told you once that she had thrown a tantrum when he refused to let her back into his classroom after only receiving an A on her O.W.L.

“Either way,” Harper says, now blatantly cold, “I’m sure he wouldn’t be happy.”

You sigh, reaching up to push your hair back from your eyes. You’re about to ask _What do you even_ want, _Harper?_ When her eyes light up and she reaches out to grab your wrist.

You still, shocked, as Harper pulls your arm toward her, her eyes narrowing shrewdly. Then a smile splits her full lips, and your heart sinks even before you know why.

“What a _pretty_ bracelet,” she says softly, silkily. 

“Ooh,” Merryweather says, leaning forward for a good look. “Yes, lovely.”

“We haven’t seen you wear _that_ before,” Valeria adds. You shrug, feeling the blush climb up your neck, wishing you could stop it. Beside you, Fred and George have gone watchful and silent, clearly confused that you’re suddenly talking about jewelry. And honestly, you’re a bit confused too. Kind of an about-face here, for Harper to seize on the bracelet. 

It’s almost like she knows.

 _That’s impossible,_ you tell yourself, heart pounding. _You’re being paranoid._

Still, your stomach flip-flops when Harper picks up the little silver charm dangling from the clasp.

“S?” she says, eyes still narrow and sharp _(knowing!)_ “Who in the world is _S,_ [First name]?” She grins. “Some secret affair?”

You rip your wrist away from her, bringing your hand firmly to your side, then remember yourself. You manage a weak smile. You glance at the Weasley twins—Fred looks confused, barely interested. But George’s face has darkened, and he’s looking anywhere but at you.

“Not secret,” you chirp. You put a hand on Fred’s shoulder and grab George’s hand—broad, calloused fingers. It jolts him back into looking at you, and you start to pull the twins away, saying, “Well, see you guys!”

“Not secret?” Harper calls after you. “Who is it, then?”

“Enjoy the task!” you say firmly, walking away.

“Blimey,” George says once you’re out of ear shot. “You room with _that?”_ He shakes his head. “Nightmare.”

Fred is grinning, and he shrugs. “Attractive nightmare,” he says, and you laugh, shoving him playfully. “Just don’t like her when she speaks.”

“You’d need a muzzle,” you agree, and both boys laugh.

When the task is over, you head out of the stands with Colin and Brenna, having said goodbye to the twins so you could cheer the champions’ returns with your respective houses. Harry Potter did, indeed, manage to make out like a bandit—second place, only two points shy of Cedric. He would have come in first, if not for his apparent savior complex—Severus told you about it, but the task gave a first hand example. He refused to simply rescue Ron Weasley from the merpeople and leave, instead staying behind to make sure everyone got out. Dumbledore clearly considered this an admirable act of heroism and awarded him the points for it, but you aren’t sure. Really, how stupid can the boy get? Did he actually think his friends were in danger? 

So yeah, you suppose you see Severus’ point about him. The stunt felt like a ploy for attention, and many fellow Slytherins are grumbling about it as the crowds stream out of the stands. At least Cedric Diggory came out on top.

Almost as soon as you come out of the stands, you spot Severus standing with McGonagall and Sprout at the edge of the path, watching their students pass. You can’t believe how striking he is in his stark black robes, stoic against the chill while others stamp and rub their hands. He looks at ease, pleasant, as Sprout speaks to him animatedly and he answers back.

You can’t help yourself. You want his eyes on you. So you pick George’s rose out of your hair, put it in your satchel and change course, veering toward him. You wave goodbye to Colin, who gives you an odd look when he sees where you’re going, but otherwise blithely goes on his way with Brenna.

“Hi, professors,” you say cheerfully, relishing the way Severus’ eyes snap to you. They flick up and down your form, and a forbidding look crosses his face. You can tell he sees the mischievousness in your eyes, and he’s not sure he likes it. But there’s something about interacting with him in front of others that gives you a thrill, and the thrill has an expiration date—it won’t last when you’re out of school.

“[Last name],” Sprout says bracingly, her cheeks apple red. “Did you enjoy the task?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “It was...really interesting.” You throw a significant glance at Severus. He’s watching you carefully, his gloved hands folded behind his back, trying to figure out your game here.

“No major injuries, anyway,” McGonagall says, lips pressed tight as her eyes wander over the crowd of students behind you.

“That’s a relief, at least,” Sprout agrees, nodding and bouncing up and down. “You never know with the Black Lake.”

“Personally,” McGonagall says, “I’ll be happy if everyone gets through the tournament with their limbs intact.”

“Yes,” Severus muses—his voice, while soft, manages to cut through the noise of the crowd, and everyone’s eyes lock onto him as soon as he speaks. Which just proves you’re not the only one captivated by this man. “Though to be fair, a dismemberment _would_ add a bit of excitement.”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress the almost-frantic giggling that threatens to spill from you as Sprout snorts and McGonagall knocks a hand into Severus’ arm—but she’s trying not to smile too, you can tell. “Severus,” she says disapprovingly, and the corners of his lips curl up slightly. 

“Professor Snape,” you say, still giggling a little. “I was actually looking for you, sir.” Sev’s black eyes flick over you, giving nothing away while managing to have a hint of warning therein. As if you’d say something to jeopardize this. 

“Miss [Last name]?” he says.

“I was wondering if I could steal some of your time this afternoon,” you say, and one of his jet black eyebrows quirks. “I have some questions about the Felix Felicis.”

Expression unchanging, Severus’ hooded eyes shift toward McGonagall, who shrugs, communicating that whatever conversation they were having is over.

“I have time now,” Severus says, sounding like this is a chore he’d rather not have to deal with. It almost stings for a second before you realize it’s all part of the game, and your grin widens. “If you’ll follow me back to the castle.”

“Sure,” you reply. Severus nods again at McGonagall and Sprout, then gestures with one hand—gloved in black leather—that you should turn and lead the way. You wave to your teachers, who give you easy, unsuspecting smiles in return.

He falls into place beside you after a few seconds, walking at a carefully appropriate distance, both of you making sure not to touch. His hands are once again folded behind his back, and you try your best to look a little nervous. Still, you’re a bit outside the pack of students, and the crowd is noisy, so it’s not hard to maintain a quiet conversation as you walk.

“Bold today, [Last name],” Severus says lowly, the corners of his mouth curving upwards just enough to know he’s not annoyed by this. “Isn’t it an unspoken rule that we ignore each other when others are around?”

You smile. “This is perfectly appropriate,” you argue. “What if I really do have a question about the Felix?”

Severus side-eyes you. “And do you?”

“No.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, rolling his eyes. “I think I’m coming to know you too well.”

Warm satisfaction fills you at that, and you unthinkingly reach over to put a hand on his arm, but he jerks away from you as if afraid you’ll burn him. You jump, your hand retreating quickly, and surreptitiously look around to see if anyone noticed (but the crowd’s attention is not on your pair). Severus shoots you a warning look.

“Sorry,” you whisper, pushing your hands in your pockets. He won’t look at you—he’s examining the trees as if they’re full of spies—and his mouth is pressed tight. “Anyway, I wanted to talk about the task. Potter.” You glance at him, watching his expression harden. “Did you catch that?”

“Gillyweed,” Severus replies through gritted teeth.

“Which means he was back in your office.” You worry at your nails, glancing around. The past couple weeks have been lovely and intimate, and the two of you have been spending a lot of time in his bed. More time than is wise, perhaps. Severus expressed his misgivings on a couple of occasions, but this is the first time you think he might have a point. What if Potter snuck in on a night you were together?

Severus seems to have these same thoughts; he’s looking paler and angrier by the second. “I should have spoken to him,” he remarks, lip curling unpleasantly. 

You raise your eyebrows. “You didn’t?”

Severus glances at you sharply. “Your words about threatening a fourteen-year-old stuck with me,” he replies, almost accusatory. “I let it slide.” He glares ahead, seeming determined. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

You raise your eyebrows at his expression. You almost feel bad for Potter—Severus can be scary when he wants to. Then again, the kid shouldn’t be sneaking around, stealing potion ingredients.

You consider this for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek. Severus glances at you, and his face finally softens into a smirk. “You’ll be helping me with it, of course.”

“Help you with what?” you ask.

“Brewing Veritaserum,” Severus replies, and you lean back, surprised. He shrugs. “If there’s one way to scare the boy into compliance, it’s by threatening his secrets.”

You shake your head, staring at him. “You’re terrifying sometimes,” you say, and it actually forces a laugh from him. “Like, criminal mastermind.”

“Speaking of criminal activities,” Severus says, straightening and clasping his gloved hands behind his back again, “I heard you were busy this morning.” You frown, confused, and he raises an eyebrow at you. “Hollingsworth came to speak with me. She seemed very...concerned that you’d fallen in with bad influences.”

“Oh my fucking god,” you spit, low enough that the group of third years hurrying by on your right doesn’t hear. All the same, Severus shoots you a warning glance. _“Harper._ She actually _tattled_ to you?”

“Yes,” Severus says, almost a laugh. “You’re very fortunate to have friends who care so deeply for your well-being, [Last name].” Sarcasm drips from every syllable.

You shoot him a smirk. “Am I in trouble, sir?”

“Very deep trouble,” Severus assures you. 

You laugh for a moment before sobering. “She noticed the bracelet,” you whisper, holding up your left wrist to show him. “Asked who S is.”

Severus’ expression doesn’t flicker, though the lines around his mouth tighten a bit. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing.” You’ve reached the castle steps, and you climb them together, finally pushing into the warmth of the Entrance Hall. “I just sort of...walked away.”

Severus nods, the lines between his eyebrows deepening. “Good.”

Without communicating it, you both start down to the dungeons, leaving the crowds behind. It’s a relief not to have to worry about lowering your voices so much, and halfway down the stairs, Severus reaches out and places a hand on the small of your back.

Neither of you speak again until you’re in his office—the conversation’s gotten a little too risky to have in public. But once you’re inside, Severus immediately locks the door before crossing to his desk, tugging off his leather gloves. You sigh, leaning against the wall, wrapping your arms around yourself. The interaction with Harper is bothering you, and you can’t shake it.

“Harper seemed weird about it,” you say finally. “The bracelet.”

Severus pauses to glance up at you for a second before depositing his gloves in the desk drawer. “There are millions of people out there whose names begin with S,” he says. His tone is nonchalant, but there’s an intensity in his black eyes as he stares at you.

“I know,” you reply, looking away. “It just...” Something’s niggling at the back of your head, something you can’t quite put your finger on. Something to do with Harper that just _feels_ wrong. But you can’t figure it out. “It just bothered me.”

Severus is silent for a moment, running a finger thoughtfully over his lips. Then the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “I doubt there’s anything to worry about,” he says. You scoff, looking away, and he pushes away from the desk to move toward you. “You worried about Arseneau as well,” he reminds you, “and nothing came of it.”

You take a breath, nodding, comforted by this. “You’re right,” you say, and you manage a smile. “Okay. You’re right.”

He’s standing so close now, and you squirm your way into his warm, secure arms. Severus chuckles gently. “We must work on your paranoia,” he mutters, lips pressed against your hair. You laugh and reach up to kiss him.

* * *

Your birthday is three days after the second task. Snape has been planning for it since you reconciled two weeks ago, wanting to make it especially good. Though he dearly hopes every year will not be like this one. If every gift he gives you has an apology attached, his gold will run dry fairly quickly.

He’s not sure you think he remembers. He hasn’t mentioned it, and neither have you—though he’s noticed a few watchful moments over the last few days while you’ve been in his office helping brew Veritaserum. He trusts you’re not doing something as inane as _testing_ him, but he looks forward to the look on your face when you realize he didn’t forget, nonetheless.

Given that your birthday is on a Tuesday, Snape doesn’t actually have class with you, and he didn’t mention anything about it the evening before either. He thinks you were somewhat disappointed upon leaving his presence on Monday night—you truly don’t think he has plans for you. Which is perfect.

He doesn’t contact you at all during the day, then leaves his office shortly before it’s time for Felix Felicis maintenance. Snape imagines, knowing you, that you’re irritated with him at this point, and he smirks to himself as he makes his way to the southern tower. The note he left by the cauldron is short and unromantic:

_Meet in the southern tower._

_S._

Snape paces around the tower for the next twenty minutes, preparing the room for you. You said in January that you expect roses, so roses are what he gives you—silvery green vines now climb up each of the tower’s inner walls, spotted with blood red blooms. They fill the space with their perfume, and candles glint on every surface, weaving around stacks of books, filling the room with warm, low light. Even he has to admit it looks romantic, something out of a story book. Like the tower has been abandoned for ages, and nature is creeping back in. He thinks you’ll like it.

Other than this (rather extravagant) display, he’s also laid out a sort of picnic on the balcony. Simple things: hard cheese and dried meat and bread. And wine, obviously. Things you’ve mentioned you like. The night is clear and fairly mild, and the moon is huge. He can’t think of a better way to spend it than sipping wine with you.

And that’s the present. Some roses and a romantic meal, and he got you another novel, too, as if you need one. At the last minute, Snape gets concerned you’ll be expecting something more—something like the bracelet, though he’s not sure he could replicate that stroke of genius if he tried.

It’s too late for changes, of course. If you don’t like it, he’ll just...crawl in a hole and die. Seems reasonable.

Snape stops pacing, eyeing the roses, seriously considering just vanishing the whole lot. Suddenly they seem very gauche, and what was he _thinking?_ A _picnic?_ As if you’re a couple of grade schoolers?

But before his wand is in his hand, he hears footsteps, and he freezes as the door opens slowly.

Your voice wafts through before you do. “Severus Snape,” you say firmly (but not completely seriously), “you have some major explaining to—”

You finally step inside, and your words die in your throat. Snape feels his lips curl into a smirk at the expression on your face—teasing firmness gives way to pure awe, pure wonder. You gaze around, stunned, taking in every detail as if you’ve suddenly stepped into a fairy ball. Your hair is loose and the candles bathe you in their soft glow, and Snape’s heart aches.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look this beautiful. And that is saying something.

Finally, your large eyes snap onto him, and he’s startled to see that they’re full of _tears._ His smirk dies slowly. Perhaps you _are_ disappointed.

“Sev,” you say softly—he likes it when you use that nickname; nobody else does. And then you’re running at him, throwing yourself against him and wrapping your arms around his neck. And Snape chuckles. So they were good tears, then.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers, burying his nose into your hair, drowning in vanilla and raspberries.

“Thank you,” you say, kissing him. Then you lean back and sniff, wiping your eyes, and you slap his arm gently. “I thought you forgot!” You laugh, pulling out of his grasp to look around the room again. “All day, I was like...I was trying not to be disappointed. But then you weren’t at Felix and...”

“Apologies,” Snape replies. “I was setting this up.”

“Don’t you dare apologize!” you exclaim, throwing yourself on him again. 

And then you’re kissing him fiercely, your full lips opening against his in a way that brooks no argument (not that he’s trying). You press your body to his, and his hands fill themselves with your curves, and Snape doesn’t think he’ll ever really get used to it. How warm you are, how pliable, how good you smell and taste and feel. The way you’re firm in all the right places and soft in all the others. The way you tremble and moan and breathe.

He hopes he doesn’t get used to it, anyway. He wants this feeling to last.

You’re eager tonight, you silly thing. Intent and impatient, moving fast. The kiss escalates, moving from slow and affectionate to sexual, needful, in a span of only a few seconds. Your tongue is making his head spin, and his fingers don’t seem to want to stop exploring your body. You could kill each other, he thinks at times like this, with the red-hot intensity of your mutual desire. Burn each other up, to cinders. To ashes.

There’s nothing of the brat here tonight. No games to play, no teasing. You reach up heatedly, your mouth open against his, to undo the buttons of his jacket and push it off. Snape bundles you against him, hands moving across your back, wanting you closer, wanting nothing between you, as you nimbly undo the buttons of his shirt and push it open, running your hands across his firm chest.

Your moan when you see his skin is unutterably erotic, but it snaps him back into his senses for a moment. He pulls away from your mouth, breathing heavily.

“The food,” he says, nodding toward the balcony, where a little meal has been set up amid blankets and cushions.

You roll your eyes, looking fierce and glossy and beautiful. “It can wait,” you reply, reaching up to hook your hands around his neck. “I can’t.”

Snape groans as you kiss him again, giving easily into your argument. He can’t see any faults in it, after all. It’s air-tight.

Moving his mouth down your neck, sliding his tongue against the goosebumps that raise there, Snape pulls you firmly against him again. His hands move up to your collarbone, and he rips down on your school tie, whipping it off and casting it to the floor. His long fingers work at the buttons off your blouse next, popping off a few before yanking the fabric roughly down your left shoulder. It reveals the strap and one cup of your silky bra, filled with your hot flesh, which Snape palms fiercely.

He feels himself ramping up, going rough, but you did ask for it, and it _is_ your birthday. Still, the pace you’re going feels feral, wild, and he won’t be surprised if tomorrow you are both a little bruised—not least because there’s no place to throw you besides the stone floor or against a wall. 

Snape’s mind starts whirring at these possibilities, deciding which you’d like better, which _he_ would like better. His hand tugs down the cup of your bra, filling one palm with your bare breast while his other hand grabs your ass, tugging you against him. You cry out, which only spurs him on, and dig your hips into him, reaching down to start undoing his belt. Maybe he could bend you over the balcony railing...he thinks you’d enjoy that...

Suddenly, from across the room, there is a loud CLICK. And before you can even start to pull away from each other, the door slams open with a BANG.

You freeze against each other, one of Snape’s hands covering your bare breast, his belt undone and your fingers against his fly...and together, you turn to look toward the noise.

Snape feels a cold rush sweep over him, and suddenly all he can hear is his own pulse in his ears.

Harper Hollingsworth is standing in the doorway.

She looks _delighted._


	36. The Harpy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't intend to leave you hanging this long, and I'm sorry! I know it was a big cliffhanger. But there was a huge storm here and I lost power for a week, which obviously made writing and posting pretty difficult. It was extremely annoying.
> 
> Anyway, I'm back! The reviews last time were out of control, babies. In a good way.
> 
> LadyoftheWesternLands, bad bitch extraordinaire, sent me more fanart! It is featured below and I am in LOVE. I know I've said this before, but I don't deserve this treatment. THANK YOU, LOVELY!!
> 
> Here's a link to her tumblr: https://ladyofthewesternlands.tumblr.com/post/638862158631927808/sketch-done-by-marcissistv-witchimage
> 
> I don't have anything else to say, except that you are all extremely cute.

* * *

_And if we don’t hide here,_   
_They’re gonna find us._   
_And if we don’t hide now,_   
_They’re gonna catch us when we sleep._   
_And if we don’t hide here,_   
_They’re gonna find us._

"Spies" - Coldplay

* * *

You and Severus move at exactly the same time, ripping away from each other. You clutch desperately at your shirt, covering your bra, and Severus draws his robes defensively across his chest.

 _“I knew it,”_ Harper says, grinning widely as she struts into the room. Her wand is raised, her eyes darting back and forth between you two. 

“Miss Hollingsworth,” Severus tries, his voice rough, but Harper jerks her wand toward him threateningly, and it quiets him.

You can’t believe this. The worst has happened.

You’ve just gotten yourselves caught.

“I _knew_ it!” Harper says again, looking back to you. You’ve never seen her like this; glowing, triumphant. Pure evil. “I _knew_ it was him!”

Your eyes dart to Severus, who looks just as confused as you. “What are—”

“You’ve been acting sketchy all term,” Harper says, her lip curling as she takes a few slow paces around your pair, wand still poised to attack. “I’m an incredible judge of character, [Last name]. Ask anyone. And I knew as soon as I met you. I knew you were hiding something.” She smirks evilly, and you can’t think. You don’t want to respond, in case it makes this worse somehow. 

“I’ve been watching you,” Harper continues. “Closely. I noticed the way you’d look at him, that wet, sort of doe-eyed look.” She sneers, disgusted, then points her wand at Severus. “And you! It only took a couple weeks before you noticed too, didn’t it? Pretty little student wants the big bad Potions Master. I saw that too. Saw you _watching_ her.”

“Harper,” you say—or croak, actually, given that your throat is so dry.

“If you had to fuck a student,” Harper cuts you off, still staring at Sev, “why couldn’t you make it someone worthwhile?”

You almost laugh, because you think she’s talking about herself. Is that why she’s doing this? She’s _jealous?_

“Hollingsworth—” There’s a warning in Severus’ tone, but Harper doesn’t heed it. She looks wildly angry.

“Shut up!” she snaps at him. “I have the power here, so just _shut up!”_ Severus closes his mouth, and Harper nods to herself, pushing a hand through her hair. She thinks a second, then laughs. “I knew something was going on, but I couldn’t prove it. You were too careful.” She raises one perfect eyebrow. “Well, you would be. Don’t want this getting out, do you?” Her laugh is extremely unpleasant, and she looks very pleased with herself. “But you screwed up, [Last name],” she says, pointing her wand back to you. “Screwed up big time, didn’t you? I wasn’t supposed to find that note. Was I?”

“Note?” Severus asks, frowning, glancing at you. You shake your head, genuinely having no idea.

Harper’s smile widens, a crocodile about to snap up her prey. The hand that is not wrapped around her wand reaches slowly into her pocket and pulls out a worn, folded piece of parchment.

She holds it up in front of her and quickly unfolds it—it’s clear by how soft and wrinkled the paper is that it’s been folded and unfolded many times. A chill runs through you at the thought of her doing it, sitting up in bed at night, reading and re-reading whatever that note says. Planning and plotting and _hating_ you.

Beside you, Severus shifts, and you glance at him to see he’s taking advantage of Harper’s distraction to slowly reach into his robes. _His wand._

Harper clears her throat once the note is unfolded, holding it up to read. “[First name],” she says. “Meet me in the southern tower at your earliest convenience. Signed...” Her eyes flick up to you, and she grins. _“S.”_

You glance down at your wrist, the bracelet and its tiny charm. Of course. _Of course._ The note he sent to your dorm last term. The note you couldn’t find, hadn’t thought about since.

You’re such an _idiot!_

“I’ve been coming up here for months,” Harper continues, “hoping to catch you at it. The room was always empty, but I could tell someone was using it frequently. Books kept showing up, blankets moved about.” She looks around curiously, taking in the new decor. “And now _roses._ And a picnic! How _romantic.”_ She spits the word. “Isn’t this just a personal little love nest? And in such a public place too! You thought no one else knew, didn’t you? So _arrogant.”_

You press your mouth closed, shaking your head. _She_ is calling _you_ arrogant?

“And then I noticed that bracelet,” Harper says, her smile fading into a hateful sneer. “Enchanted, right? I recognized it as a love bond.” She looks like she could spit in your face, and you subtly hide your wrist behind your back. “Bold of you, wearing his initial in public. Bold as bloody brass, I’d say. _Disgusting.”_

You glance at Sev again, wanting to see his wand drawn, but it’s not. His hand is still furtively tucked into his robe. Harper’s eyes are directed at you, but she follows your gaze and they flick to him. He stills, looking intense. 

You take a couple quick steps toward her, needing to distract her from him. It works. She turns to you, her wand coming up sharply. “Well, good job, Harper,” you say desperately. You swallow, hoping Severus’ arm has started moving again. You have to keep talking. “You connected the dots. Who else have you told?”

Harper barks a laugh, her lip curling unpleasantly. “I couldn’t exactly tell _anyone_ , could I?” she says, and you almost close your eyes in relief. “Not without proof.” She smiles triumphantly. “But now, I have that covered. I doubt Dumbledore will need much more than eyewitness testimony.” She lets you sweat for a second, then her grin widens. _“Unless..._ you’re willing to make this worth my time.”

You freeze. Beside you, you hear Severus hiss. Blackmail. That’s what it’s coming down to, and of course it is. You wouldn’t expect anything less of Harper Hollingsworth. 

A glance at Severus shows his face white and drawn, eyes filled with loathing—an expression you would have been terrified of at the beginning of the year. You’re surprised Harper isn’t shaking in her boots, but maybe she’s so drunk with power she doesn’t realize how much danger she’s in. You’re suddenly sure that Sev would do anything to protect this secret; you can see it in his eyes.

“What do you want, Hollingsworth?” he forces from between his teeth. His hand is back at his side again, balled into a fist. Where’s his wand? Did he get it? Or perhaps he doesn’t have it on him. Your heart sinks at the prospect.

Harper smiles, sauntering toward him, her head tilted thoughtfully as her eyes run up and down his form. She’s attracted to him, you can see that, and it makes you grit your teeth. 

“I want a lot of things,” Harper purrs, and you almost roll your eyes—but you’re too scared to set her off. 

Severus watches her stoically, a thoughtful crease between his brows, but you catch his eye flicking back toward the door. He’s planning something; you know him well enough to know that. You just don’t know what.

“But,” Harper sighs, infuriatingly smug, “I suppose, for these purposes, gold will suffice.”

“How much?” Severus asks instantly, though you think this is a bad idea. Paying Harper off feels like a surefire way to be under her thumb forever—or at least as long as Severus wants to work as a teacher. And you doubt, once the gold has exchanged hands, that she’ll make an Unbreakable Vow never to tell.

“How _much,”_ Harper replies patronizingly. She places the tip of her wand on Severus’ chest, which is still bare, and leans toward him. She’s thoroughly enjoying this. “How much is it worth to you?”

“Anything,” he replies immediately, and you turn to look at him, startled. What is he _doing?_ Now she’ll rack up the price for sure!

Severus meets your horrified eyes, expression unchanging. For someone who prides himself on competence and self control, he just made a complete mess of this!

His response pisses Harper off. She shoots you a horrible glare, and you’re sure if she had the power, you would be struck dead where you stand. 

_“Anything,”_ she repeats, scrutinizing you as if you’re dung under her shoe. “Hear that, [Last name]? He must _really_ care about you. That, or you’ve got some kind of _otherworldly_ minge.” Severus’ eyebrows pop up in surprise before his look falls into a hateful sneer. Harper doesn’t notice, however—she seems to be processing what he said, and suddenly her glare is replaced by the cruelest grin you’ve ever seen. “But that’s good for me, isn’t it? _Anything.”_

“Name your price,” Severus reiterates, and you almost shove him. He’s just digging you deeper and deeper.

Harper’s face lights up, and she puts her wand thoughtfully to her lips. “Hm...” she muses. You wish you could spit at her. “How much is the prize for the Triwizard Tournament?”

“A thousand,” Severus replies immediately. You glance at him, panicked. No way do you have that kind of money! Severus meets your eye, but yet again, his expression doesn’t change.

“A thousand galleons,” Harper says thoughtfully, nodding to herself. “Yes, that’ll do for now.” She smiles, meeting your eye. “A thousand each, of course. And we’ll discuss further payments at the end of the year.”

 _“Further—?”_ you hiss, horrified.

“Of course,” Harper says lightly. “You’ll want my extended silence, won’t you? One day, I might decide two thousand galleons isn’t enough.”

You feel yourself grow hot with anger. She’s threatening your worst nightmare: to be under her, to have to _deal_ with her, for the foreseeable future. _Forever._ And you frankly doubt your relationship with Severus will survive it. No relationship could.

 _“You,”_ you say, your voice shaking with fury. “You _fucking—”_

“[First name],” Severus hisses, and suddenly his grip is around your arm. You stop speaking.

Harper stares at you coldly. “Yes,” she says to Severus. “You’d better keep your little whore in line. She could ruin everything for you.” 

You feel Severus fingers tighten around your arm at the word _whore,_ but he’s otherwise silent. Harper sighs, smiles, and runs a hand through her hair. She’s loving every second of this. You, meanwhile, are shaking with rage. 

“Well,” Harper says brightly, “I think that settles it. Two thousand galleons by...shall we say the first of the month? Or I’ll be letting Dumbledore in on your little secret.”

You open your mouth to—what? You don’t know. Argue? Scream? You just know you’re desperate. And there’s no way you’ll come up with that kind of money in two days time.

But Severus answers before you can say anything. “Agreed,” he says firmly.

Harper pauses for a moment, watching him carefully. You wonder if, like you, she thinks he might have put up more of a fight. But then she smiles. “Good.”

And she’s finally backing away, and you’re relaxing with every inch of space she gives you. Her wand lowers slightly...but then it seems she has another thought, and her smile widens.

“And,” she says, “you won’t be seeing each other anymore.”

There’s a beat. A long, awful silence.

“What?” you breathe, and Harper looks at you innocently.

“Well, it’s not appropriate, is it?” she says, pacing quickly toward you, her wand poking you firmly in the chest. “So you’ll end this affair.” She snarls, looking dead into your eyes. “You’ll never see each other again. You’ll drop Potions and stop all contact. Or I’m going to Dumbledore right now.”

You’re shaking, and you can’t help yourself. You’re sick of her walking all over you, looking at you like something putrid. You don’t understand how Severus is managing to remain stoic. You need to defy her _somehow,_ hit her where it hurts.

“No,” you say.

Harper’s eyes narrow, and her smile is more a baring of teeth. _“What?”_ she asks, dangerously chipper.

“No,” you repeat, knocking her wand away from your chest. _“Fuck_ you. You can’t tell me to drop Potions. And you _definitely_ can’t tell us we’re not allowed to see each other.”

“Can’t I?” Harper asks furiously. _“Can’t_ I, [Last name]?” She leans closer, until your nose is filled with her garish perfume. 

“No, you can’t,” you insist. “You don’t get to dictate our lives or our happiness.”

“Very easy for you to say, isn’t it?” she whispers. “But let’s ask _him.”_ She flicks her wand toward Severus, who is watching the interaction, motionless. If you didn’t know him, you’d almost think he was apathetic; in reality, every fiber of his being is focused on the two of you. 

“See,” Harper continues nastily, “Professor Snape is _really_ the one with the most to lose here. If this got out, he’d never be able to teach again. His life would be ruined.” She faux-pouts, sticking out her lower lip, then turns her wand back to you, flicking it up and down in a disgusted way. Your fingers curl into a fist. “You, on the other hand, would walk away relatively unscathed...Though you’d be expelled, of course, and you’d _certainly_ be exposed for the conniving little _slut_ you are.”

It happens before you can process it. Something snaps inside of you, and you can’t stop yourself. 

You wind back, flexing your arm as hard as you can...then you smash your fist into Harper’s face. _Hard._ There is the most absolutely _satisfying CRACK_ when your knuckles connect with her nose.

She staggers back, shrieking, caught off guard. Her hands come up to her nose, which is gushing blood, and you have a split second of warm pride before you hear Severus groan beside you, “[First name]...” Looking over, you find him shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You slag!” Harper screeches, doubled over in pain. You grab your wand from your pocket and raise it defensively. She does the same, her other hand still catching the blood dripping from her nostrils. “You stupid, maggot-fucking _whore!”_

 _Maggot-fucking?_ As insults go, it’s a creative one, you’ll give her that.

 _“Fuck you,”_ you spit back, hoping she’ll try a jinx next, just so you have an excuse.

“The deal’s off!” Harper screams, backing toward the door, wand pointed straight at your face. “I’m telling the whole castle. I’m singing it from the bloody _rooftops._ I’ll make sure neither of you can show your faces within fifty miles of here—”

“Do it!” you cry, rage spilling over, not sure what you’re even saying. “I hope you do, you conceited bitch! And I hope your jealousy is as obvious to _them_ as it is to _me.”_

 _“Jealous!”_ Harper shrieks. “I’ll show you fucking _jealous!”_ Her wand flies up, and you raise yours as well, ready to hex her for everything you’re worth.

But before either of you can get a spell off, a jet of red light shoots from behind you, hitting Harper squarely in the chest. Her fury morphs for one beautiful, hilarious moment into confusion—even betrayal. Then she is on the ground, knocked out cold.

You turn, breathing heavily, to Severus. His wand is in his hand, and his face is white and rigid.

“Provoking her,” he hisses from between clenched teeth, eyes darting toward you. “What were you _thinking?”_

“What were _you?”_ you snap back. “She was taking advantage of our weakness, and you let her!”

Severus rounds on you, finally angry. “Of course I let her,” he snaps back. “I was trying to prevent _this.”_ He waves a hand at Harper’s unconscious body, blood still streaming from her nose. “Do you honestly think I was going to let her walk out that door?”

You freeze, guilt creeping over you as Severus shakes his head and approaches Harper. “You...weren’t?”

“Of course not, [First name],” Severus says, slowly lowering himself to his knees beside Harper’s head, wand hovering above her face. “I was going to Stun her as soon as her back was turned.” He sneers at the unconscious girl, derisive. “Now I have a broken nose to fix, blood to vanish and a possible concussion to deal with, given that she fell backwards.”

“Well...” you start, horrified and kind of sorry (but only for Severus’ inconvenience). “Well, I didn’t know that!”

Severus’ black eyes flick to you, and he regards you for a long time. Then, unbelievably, one corner of his mouth quirks up in a tiny grin. “So little faith in me,” he says, turning back to Harper. He flicks his wand, and with a tiny _crack,_ her nose goes back to the right shape. Then he works on getting the swelling down.

“Let me help,” you say, striding to his side and vanishing the blood from her face.

“You’ve done enough,” Severus says evenly while he works, his non-wand-hand reaching back to fend you away. 

“Sorry,” you sigh, pushing a hand through your hair, feeling bad. The adrenaline is wearing off, and you’re trying to calculate next steps. But honestly, seeing Harper unconscious and bloody is sort of wonderful. “I got...carried away.”

“It was rash,” Severus agrees, disapproving. He glances at you. “Though I admit, watching you punch her...” He shakes his head, chuckling softly. “It’s possible I’ll cherish the memory for the rest of my life.”

You find it in you to actually laugh at that, reaching out to stroke his silky hair. He catches your hand and presses his lips to it before turning back to Harper. But the simple gesture gives you hope—you could easily see this meaning the end for you and Severus, simply for safety’s sake. But maybe he’s not considering that?

“What are we gonna do?” you ask as Severus gets the last of Harper’s blood off her clothes and turns her head gently, checking for other injuries.

In lieu of a direct response, Severus points his wand at Harper’s temple and whispers, _“Obliviate.”_

“Right,” you say. “Obviously.”

After a few seconds, Severus leans back. “I’ve targeted every memory concerning interactions between you and I,” he says, eyebrows knit together in concentration as his gaze flicks over her face. Then he brings his wand to her temple again. “One moment.”

He closes his eyes, and you can’t imagine he’s doing anything besides Legilimency—shuffling through her memories, making sure he’s got them all. It only takes a few seconds before he opens his eyes again, turning to you.

“She hates you,” he says softly, a crease between his brows. “Despises you. Irrationally so.” He shakes his head. “You must be cautious. Harper Hollingsworth comes from a very powerful family.”

“I haven’t done _shit_ to her,” you reply acerbically. “I doubt there’s anything I can do.”

Severus shrugs. “Well, her mind was cleared of this fairly easily. She’s not terribly complex.”

“Oh, wait a sec,” you say. Squatting down, you dig in Harper’s pockets to get the note she stole from you. It goes up in a burst of flame from the end of your wand.

Severus is watching you carefully as you regain your feet. “You didn’t tell me you lost the note,” he says softly, intently.

You shake your head. “I forgot,” you admit. He closes his eyes, and you nod. “Probably the stupidest move I’ve ever made.”

Severus sits back on his heels, regarding Harper thoughtfully. He must have Stunned her really good, for her to be out this long. That, or he has another spell on her, forcing her into enchanted sleep. But he looks conflicted about it, or at least concerned. He looks like he didn’t enjoy these last few minutes, and you feel suddenly very guilty. Had you been a bit more careful, it could have been avoided.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, hugging yourself. 

Severus looks at you, frowning. “I should not have sent that note to your dormitory,” he says. “It was my fault.”

“It wasn't just the note,” you reply. “She noticed more than that.”

Severus sighs, looking away from you, and shakes his head. His expression is conflicted. It scares you. And it only takes a few seconds before you find out why.

“Perhaps this is untenable,” Severus says softly, regretfully. “This...relationship.”

A cold wave washes over you. No. _No,_ dammit, after all that, Harper is _not_ going to ruin this!

“Stop,” you say firmly, almost angrily. Severus looks at you, and though he’s frowning, you think you recognize some hope in his expression. At the very least, he seems more than willing to hear you out. “Look, we fixed it, didn’t we?” You shake your head. “And you’re lying if you tell me you didn’t expect this to happen at some point.”

Severus nods—because after all, neither of you are idiots, nor particularly optimistic. Sighing, he rises off his knees.

“We need to be more careful,” he tells you firmly. You nod, all for that. “In a way we haven’t been before.”

“We’ve barely been _careful_ at all,” you reply, thinking back on all your semi-public encounters. You laugh, chastising yourself. “I’m surprised this didn’t happen earlier, actually.”

“We were enjoying ourselves too much,” Severus says gravely, as if you’d asked for it by having fun. You approach him slowly, and when he remains still, you wrap your arms around his waist. He lets you, his long fingers toying thoughtfully with your hair.

“It’s not fair,” you say softly into his chest. “We weren’t hurting anyone.”

You feel Severus’ derisive shrug. “People don’t think in those terms,” he says bitterly. “You know that.” 

You nod, feeling enormous solidarity with him—the two of you against the world. You bury your face into his robes, taking in his smell. 

After a few moments, you pull back. “So,” you say, reaching to button his shirt back up to his throat, “more ground rules?”

Severus sighs, eyebrows knit together, and lifts one large hand to cradle your face. He leans down and presses a firm kiss against your lips. It lingers. And it worries you. It feels like bad news.

“We can’t go on the way we have,” he says softly, and when you open your mouth to argue, he cuts you off. “It’s the only way, [First name]. We have to stop these...inappropriate encounters. They’re too dangerous.” He sighs. “We have to go back to being strictly professional.”

You step back from him, suddenly feeling cold. “Are you...breaking up with me?”

Severus turns to stare at you, then tilts his head and quirks an eyebrow in an expression that says, _what a ridiculous question._ You almost laugh, relieved.

“No,” he says in a long-suffering sort of way. He shakes his head. “But we can’t be...physical with each other anymore. At least until you’re out of school.”

Your heart sinks, though you’re not necessarily surprised by this. You anticipated it as soon as you saw Harper standing in the doorway. And he’s right—it’s too risky. You’re just glad he doesn’t want to end the relationship entirely.

“This fucking sucks,” you say, clenching your fists as you stare at Harper. You’re suddenly sorely tempted to kick her in the head.

“I’m not particularly thrilled myself,” Severus replies, also sneering at the unconscious girl. “But others seem incapable of keeping their noses out of our business, so...”

You turn back to him, approaching him, taking in his smell—the smell you’ll sometimes catch in your hair after a night together. The smell that makes your heart feel like it’s inflating in your chest. The smell you could sink into slowly, breathe in forever. Chalk dust and book leather and herbs.

God, you love him.

“I’ll miss you,” you say, reaching out to hold his face between your hands. His black eyes flick to yours, and you can read the regret in them.

“Yes,” he muses, brushing your hair away from your eyes. “As if I wasn’t already looking forward to June.”

You laugh, and it makes his lip twitch, and you reach up on your tiptoes to press your mouth close to his. “One last kiss then,” you say softly.

“Until June,” he reiterates. “Only until June.”

* * *

After vanishing your birthday present from the tower—the roses, the food, the candles—Snape quickly and efficiently deals with Hollingsworth. He ends up leaving her unconscious body in the girl’s bathroom a floor down. You run down and act as lookout as Snape levitates the little harpy down the stairs. With a bit of luck, the girl will assume she fainted. She’ll have very few memories regarding the day in general, and conspicuous missing time if she reflects too closely on the past term, but there’s little else Snape can do about it.

After that, he hands you the book he got you for your birthday and sends you on your way. There’s not even a kiss goodbye, as you are standing in a public corridor, and he wonders if he’ll come to regret that over the next few months.

Snape reflects on his final interaction with you up in the southern tower. He’s not sure how he feels about it. There’s a deep melancholy in his chest at the thought of your absence from his bed, of course, and for the fact that your birthday was so spectacularly ruined. 

But he’s also berating himself. He was not able to do as he should and put an end to this relationship entirely. Truthfully, he didn’t even consider it. Not even as Harper was strutting about the room, gloating and blackmailing. His only thoughts, in fact, were on how to _preserve_ it. 

He thought he was stronger than that. Though at this point, he’s not sure why he thinks he’s strong at all...at least where you’re concerned.

When he saw Hollingsworth in the tower doorway, the violence in his head startled him. The loathing he felt for that girl. He looked at her as a threat, he realizes—a legitimate danger to his life. His animal instincts kicked into gear in a way he is not used to. All he was thinking during her stupid speech was that he’d kill her if he had to. If that was the only way he could keep you, so be it.

Luckily, he managed to calm himself before resorting to murder. But the intensity startled him. He knows he is possessive and protective of you, but this went beyond that. This was aggression, gut-deep.

Which is ridiculous and weak, and Snape does not feel good about it. He wishes he could use this opportunity to cut ties, and not simply because this affair is against the rules. It’s because of _you._ It’s because of the way he feels about you. As the months have gone by, it’s become more and more apparent—especially after the mess with his Dark Mark. And today, Harper’s attempted interference brought it into stark relief. 

You’re becoming an addiction. Something he doesn’t just _want_ or _enjoy_ on occasion, that he could take or leave. He feels you steadily becoming something he _needs—_ your company, your humor, your body, your mind. And it’s a selfish kind of need, because it is at your expense. He’s poison to your soul, but he keeps you close regardless.

He wouldn’t think that without proof—he’s seen the effects of his companionship upon you. The price you pay for growing close to him. The loss of your naivety, the wise new glint in your eye. The way looking over your shoulder has become habitual, and the ease and grace with which you subvert the truth. You’re older and more ruthless now. More like him.

It’s his fault. You’re becoming your darker self, your shadow self, and if not for all his secrets and corruption, you would still be light and free. He’ll drag you down even further if this continues, he has no doubt. Drown you in his world of shadow and anger and guilt, until there’s nothing left of the girl you once were.

He should be doing everything in his power to prevent this. He should be pushing you away, for your sake, because he is toxic. 

But he can’t. Instead, he clings to you, holding as tight as he can, because he doesn’t think he’s ever held something this _good,_ this _pure._ He wants more, wants it to last as long as it can. And despite himself, the idea of losing you truly _hurts._

So he’ll keep you. He will hide you from the world and make sure you’re safe. He’ll do everything he can to ensure your happiness—besides letting you go. Gods, let him have this one good thing.

Even if it is untenable.

* * *

You’re concerned the next morning, as you roll out of bed and get dressed. Harper came back to the dorm last night, seeming dazed and speaking very little, and you avoided her like the plague. But today it seems like she’s back to her usual self, chatting with the Gray twins and making snide remarks on other students.

You send her a weak smile on your way to the bathroom, and she barely glances at you in return. Which...that’s good, right? Ignoring you is better than taking interest in your actions. Right?

As far as you manage to hear before heading down to breakfast, Harper doesn’t mention her “fainting spell” in the bathroom. You suppose she wouldn’t, even to her friends—she’s too proud. But more importantly, she doesn’t mention anything about you and Severus.

You start to relax a little. Severus is a talented wizard, you know that. If anyone can execute a perfect Obliviate, it’s him. And you’re still here, right? You’re not being dragged to Dumbledore’s office and expelled. 

And Severus is still here too, you notice as you walk into the Great Hall for breakfast. Up at the teacher’s table, looking as sexy as ever, picking at his food and listening to Flitwick go on about something beside him. You can’t wait until after class...

Your heart sinks as you remember, and you shoot a hateful look back toward Harper, who is making her way into the Hall as well. There won’t be an _after class._ Probably never again. Of course, you’ll still do Felix maintenance, but Severus will have to keep his hands off you. He’s also put a kibosh on you spending the hour between Felix and Club in his office— _for now,_ at least. Until things cool down and you’re both sure Harper is sufficiently Obliviated.

But the main takeaway is that there will be no more intimacy for the rest of the school year. You think, maybe, that the first couple weeks will be fun—lots of knowing looks and innuendo. But much longer than that, you have a feeling it’ll become torture.

Of course, this is what you and Sev _should_ have done in the first place. You talked about it at length up in the tower yesterday—you should never have given into physical intimacy. You’d never see Severus as merely a teacher, and Severus would never truly see you as a student, and perhaps when you were graduated, you would have gotten back in touch and something _appropriate_ would have happened.

Of course, it’s too late now—you’ve tasted each other, and you’re both hooked. But taking the appropriate route would have prevented this. It’s a fitting punishment, actually. You’re in for a very frustrating four months, and it’s no one’s fault but your own.

Still. As long as he’s yours, in heart if not in body, you think you can cope.

The day goes by as usual. You keep worrying, for the first few hours, that Harper will spontaneously regain her memories and Dumbledore will show up to take you out of class, looking grim. But when the bell after Herbology rings, those thoughts are mostly gone. 

You pass Harper in the Entrance Hall on the way to the dungeons, and you wish you could go over and say hi—just to gauge her reaction to you, to make sure things are normal. But she’d surely find that weird, and whatever her reaction, you’re positive it would only make you more paranoid. 

Again, this is a self-imposed punishment. You broke the rules, and now you’re paying for it.

_Worth it....?_

You enter the Potions classroom a little after the rest of the class. Being alone with Severus is too tempting—and you worry it’ll make you too sad. You’re ready to try this whole platonic thing, you really are, if only because you don’t want to annoy him by constantly slipping up. You can’t put all the control in his hands—you have to be mature about this.

Severus glances at you before beginning his lecture, but otherwise things go fairly normally as you begin your brews. Benji actually comes over to your cauldron, which shocks you, and he sheepishly asks to borrow an ingredient. You smile at him questioningly, easily handing it over, and he beams. You’ve missed his smile. You’ve talked so little since Christmas...you want your friend back.

So you ask how he’s doing. And he says he’s okay and asks after you. And as you answer, he rubs at the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“Good, good,” he says absently, not meeting your eye. And he takes a deep breath and says, “Well, better get back to work.”

“Yeah,” you reply, disappointed.

Benji watches you for a second, biting on his lower lip. Then he shrugs. “Miss you, [Last name].”

Suddenly, you feel like you’re about to cry. Because if you’re reading his tone right, he’s not promising anything—he’s giving you a real goodbye.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I miss you too.”

And Benji stuffs his hands in his pockets and slumps back to his cauldron. When Colin sidles over a bit later to ask what that was about, you don’t tell him the whole story. It makes you too sad. He’s still convinced Benji will come around. But it’s been nearly two months. You’re certain, at this point, that he won’t.

You hang out in the library for an hour after class, then rush back downstairs for Felix Felicius. Part of you hopes Severus won’t be there—it’ll be easier that way—while the other part wants to see him, if only for a few moments. How are you longing for him already? Or is it just the anticipation of the longing you’ll be feeling? Whatever the case, it’s not fun, and it’s barely started.

You smile when you enter to see Sev seated behind his desk, neck deep in essays. You close the door behind you, though you don’t lock it, and lean back against the wood to watch him fondly. He glances up only briefly, sighing and gesturing helplessly to the piles of paper on his desk, before returning to work.

“You know,” you say, “you wouldn’t have so much grading to do if you assigned less homework.”

You watch his mouth twitch before you even finish the sentence, but his eyes don’t leave the paper as he makes a few notes. “Is that the kind of thing you say to your other professors?” he asks.

You laugh. “You just said we couldn’t be physical,” you remind him. “But I guess I can try treating you the way I treat Sprout, if that’s what you’re into.” You think a second. “Ma’am.”

Severus finally looks up at you, clearly trying not to laugh. “Do your work, you silly girl,” he orders, pointing his quil toward the lab. “Then leave me to mine.” He bends back over and you think you hear him mutter, “Already distracting...” as you head toward the potion.

Despite all the teasing and levity, you do the maintenance steps very carefully. It’s only month and a half until brewing is complete, and there are supposed to be a few signs showing up that tell you the potion is correct. You haven’t seen any yet, and it worries you.

Today, however, you barely set down your stirring rod before something happens. The surface of the potion, usually molten gold and smooth as glass, is churning slightly. _Bubbling._ It’s subtle, very subtle, but it makes you gasp in delight.

“What?” Severus’ alarmed voice comes from his desk, and you hear him stand quickly from his chair. 

“Come here, Sev!” you say, gesturing him frantically over. “Come here!” He sweeps up to your side quickly, looking concerned. But it only takes him a glance at the bubbling potion, and the delight on your face, for him to relax. He closes his eyes, rubbing them at the shock you gave him, before finally casting you a smile.

“Well done,” he says. “It’s promising.”

“It’s _perfect,”_ you insist, staring in wonder at your golden liquid baby. 

Severus chuckles. “It still has six weeks,” he says flatly. “Plenty of time for you to muck it up.”

You elbow him, laughing...and suddenly you realize how close he is. He’s just behind you, looking over your shoulder, and you only have to press back a few inches to close the distance. His warm body comes firmly against you, and you feel comfortingly enfolded by his long robes. It’s such a familiar, wonderful sensation, and you sigh in contentment as his hands move to each of your hips. You feel him press his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply, and goosebumps race up your arms.

Then, at almost exactly the same time, you both freeze, realizing you’re not supposed to be doing this. And yet...neither of you pull away from each other.

“This,” Severus says in that deep, liquid voice of his, mouth close to your ear, “may be more difficult than I assumed.”

“Yeah,” you say breathlessly, amazed at how ready you are for him to tear your clothes off. You’ve created a solid habit for yourselves over the year—a habit that’s going to be difficult to break. You decide to push your luck. “We could...start again tomorrow?”

But he’s not having it. You hear Severus’ quiet sigh as he removes his hands from you and back away. “[First name]...” he says warningly.

“I know,” you reply, turning to face him. You almost reach up to kiss him—again, that’s what your instincts are begging for, since that’s your usual response when he admonishes you. But you restrain yourself, balling your hands at your sides instead. Then you crack a smile. “So maybe don’t, like, stand so close next time?”

“Of course,” Severus says, looking away from you and backing off even further. You watch his black eyes—there’s real concern there.

“What?” you ask, and he meets your gaze seriously.

“We have to do this,” he says firmly. “We have to prove we can, or—”

“We can,” you interrupt, not wanting to hear _or what._ “We can do it.” Severus regards you for a long moment, face very stern. Finally, he nods.

“Get your things,” he says, looking away and heading back to the door. That crease between his brows hasn’t gone anywhere—he seems ashamed somehow. He shakes his head. “I’ll...see you tomorrow in class.”

You watch him head back to his desk, biting the inside of your cheek. It’s not hard to see you both feel pretty terrible about this whole thing. You wish you could comfort each other but...that’s exactly the opposite of what you should do.

“This is torture already,” you mutter, gathering up your belongings. Severus watches you, kneading his forehead, face stoic in grim solidarity.

“We have to do this,” he repeats.

“We _will,”_ you insist. And you head briskly toward the door, squaring your shoulders. You turn as you open it, meeting his eye one last time. “See you tomorrow, Se—professor.”

It’s wonderful to see his lip twitch at your slip up, and it makes you smile. But your heart sinks again as you close the door on his office.

You have to do this. But can you?


	37. Withdrawal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing a dance because 1000 KUDOS?? WHAT?? I LOVE YOU BABIES SO MUCH.
> 
> This is nuts. I'm very honored, and I genuinely don't deserve it. THANK YOU!
> 
> As usual, I want to remind you to eat food and drink water. And honestly, if you're tired? Take a nap. Seriously, naps are so good. Work can wait.
> 
> Have I mentioned I love you?
> 
> PS: JennoSama, can you read minds? You literally guessed what happens here last chapter. You should just send me ideas, because you're clearly good at it.

* * *

_I don't want to be afraid.  
_ _The deeper that I go,  
_ _It takes my breath away.  
_ _Soft hearts, electric souls,  
_ _Heart to heart and eyes to eyes.  
_ _Is this taboo?_

"House of Memories" - Panic! At the Disco

* * *

The first week of March ticks slowly by, windy and gray. You see very little of Severus during it, both of you determined to stick to the plan, and it isn’t long until you’re missing him. Almost worse, you’re _bored._ You’re piled under school work as the N.E.W.T.s get closer, so social time with your friends is practically non-existent. Severus was all that kept you sane and relaxed. 

Your hatred for Harper continues to fester, but at least it’s clear she doesn’t remember what happened. You’re both thoroughly ignoring each other, which is exactly how you think it should be. Though sometimes, looking at her smug, stupid face and thinking about how much you miss Severus, you wish you could punch her again.

On Friday afternoon, you walk into Severus’ office for Felix maintenance. You smile at him as you come in the door—your conversations seem to slowly but surely be creeping up in length over time, as neither of you can help yourselves from mentioning mutual interests or talking about your day. It’s harmless, you figure. You’re not touching each other.

Today is no exception. Severus certainly looks like he has something on his mind; his expression is dark and broody. He sits behind his desk, arms crossed, and he doesn’t return the grin you throw him.

You stop before you get to the lab. “What?” you say.

He’s been waiting for you to ask, it seems. Instantly, his hands fly out to grip the edges of the desk, and he leans forward, sneering. _“Potter,”_ he spits.

You roll your eyes. Of course. You rarely see him this pissed off if it’s not Potter-related.

“What happened this time?” you ask, your tone a bit flatter than perhaps it should be. Severus gives you a look, and you shrug, remembering how patient he was all those times you wanted to talk about the George drama last term. So the next sentence comes out gentler. “Seriously, I want to know.”

“I spoke to him,” Sev says, looking slightly pacified, perhaps simply because he has someone to talk to about this. “About sneaking into my office at night.”

“What’d he say?” you ask.

“He was arrogant,” Severus replies, his lip curling as he thinks back on it. You almost have to laugh at how much he hates Potter—the kid must _really_ know how to push his buttons. “He denied everything.”

“Did you...” You hesitate, licking your lips. “Did you show him the Veritaserum?”

“Yes.”

“What’d he say?” You wonder if Potter would be arrogant enough to call a professor on something, even if that _something_ is blatantly threatening a student.

“Nothing,” Severus spits. “Karkaroff came in at that point.” You nod, finally understanding why Severus is so annoyed by the interaction. “He lingered by my desk for the rest of the lesson.”

“God, get a life, man,” you mutter, making your way into the lab to see your lightly bubbling little Felix. You’re quite fond of the potion—you’ve cared for it for five months, and it’s finally paying off. Plus the perpetual bubbles make it look rather cute and cheerful.

Severus lets out a short laugh, probably against his will. He looks more relaxed than he did when you entered, but it kind of seems like he’s fighting it. Like he wants to stay annoyed.

You start stirring the potion. The instructions have changed a bit now that it’s bubbling, but you’ve gotten used to it over the past week. You call over your shoulder, “Go on, I can multitask. What did Karkaroff want?”

“Nothing new,” Severus replies lazily. “The Mark is darkening, etcetera.” You nod—he’s already explained what this could mean, but you’ve decided to be optimistic. Perhaps Dumbledore can prevent the Dark Lord’s return or...something. “As if he expects me to have ideas,” Severus continues. “As if he expects me to fix it for him.”

You scoff. “You’re not his mother.”

Severus laughs again, and you smile to yourself as you stir. He just needs to vent. He never admits when he just needs to vent, but you always notice how much better it makes him feel.

“Potter lingered,” Severus says, sneering. “Hidden behind his desk...I stopped Karkaroff before he could say much and threw him out.”

“God, that kid is nosey,” you mutter, making the final stir and lowering the potion’s temperature before turning back to him.

“You’ve no idea,” Severus replies. He’s leaning back in his chair, his long, thin fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Always trying to catch me doing something nefarious...” He glances up at you. “Though he frequently looks in the wrong places.” He smirks. “All he would need to ruin me is to find out about you.”

“Well, he won’t,” you say, and you grimace. “Not with our new...arrangement.” 

Severus sneers too. “Yes,” he replies. His dark mood is back.

There’s a moment of silence as you wander out of the lab, approaching his desk slowly. He watches you, a crease between his brows, as you come up to its edge. “I miss you,” you say softly.

Severus meets your eyes with a look he frequently gets when you say something like that—as if he can’t believe you’re being sweet to him. He always seems rather touched by it, and you love that.

“I feel the same,” he replies, reaching out to take one of your hands. You close your eyes at the feel of his skin, his long, slender fingers. He links your fingers together, idly examining your hands. Then, very casually, he asks, “Has Hollingsworth seemed...”

“Completely normal,” you say instantly. “She doesn’t remember anything.” 

Your heart skips a beat as he nods, considering this. Perhaps, if he thinks you’re safe, he’ll let it go back to normal. Maybe it’s too soon to hope, and you know it’s not exactly _wise,_ but...

You turn his hand over and take it in both of yours, trailing your fingers in soft patterns against his palm. Tilting your head, you examine it—large and pale and clever—and consider how badly you’d like it on your body again.

“Maybe,” you say, “we could...bend the rules...”

Severus breathes heavily out his nose. “[First name]...”

“Not go back to how it was,” you say quickly, glancing up into those ebony eyes. “Just...you know, breaks every so often. Like...once every two weeks. Once a month even, just so we don’t go absolutely batshit.”

Severus is silent for a long moment, thinking this over, which you believe is an infinitely better sign than an instant “no.” You watch his face as emotions tick across it—annoyance, hesitance, temptation...

“Sev...” you purr, bringing his hand up to your mouth, trailing the ends of his fingers against your lower lip. “I feel like I’m dying...”

Severus rolls his eyes, though he’s smirking. “It’s barely been a week.”

“You know how impatient I am,” you say, guiding his fingers down, making them ghost along your neck, your collarbones, your chest. “Especially where you’re concerned.” He watches the progression of his hand intently, and you smile. He wants it just as badly as you do. “I’m no good at waiting.” You position his hand so that his fingers hook the collar of your shirt, tugging it down a little, and you meet his eyes with a wicked smile. “Please...sir.”

He stares at you flatly for a long moment, expression giving nothing away...then he inhales deeply and seizes the front of your shirt in one large fist. He tugs you toward him, forcing you up on your tip-toes over the desk.

He brings you nose-to-nose, mouth firm. “You are impossibly frustrating,” he says, his voice lowering into that deadly whisper he has (the one you find unutterably sexy).

You giggle, both hands grasping at the arm that’s pulling you to him. He’s so _serious,_ and it only makes you giggle harder.

Severus sneers but simultaneously indulges you by dragging you closer. “This is not funny,” he insists.

You cackle aloud at that. “No, you’re totally right,” you say, not even trying to contain your mirth. “We should always act like someone just died. We shouldn’t have any fun, _ever.”_

You watch Severus’ lip twitch, and he suddenly releases your collar as if it shocked him. You drop onto the desk surface, barely catching yourself as Sev backs away, adjusting his sleeves.

“Patience,” he says, watching you stretch out on your stomach. You’re bent at the waist over his desk—a familiar position—and it’s calculated to tempt him into taking advantage of it. But it doesn’t seem like he’s going to take the bait. He just watches you impassively, then continues, “If things go well over the next few weeks—”

“A few weeks!” you cry, burying your face dramatically in your hands.

You hear the begrudging amusement in Severus’ voice when he next speaks. _“If_ things go well, we’ll return to this conversation.” You look up hopefully, and you’re gratified to find him smirking. He raises an eyebrow at you. “But not before you prove to have _some_ semblance of self-control.”

“But if I do good...we’ll make a compromise?”

“We’ll discuss it.”

“You promise?” you ask, pouting. 

He doesn’t look impressed, but he does grudgingly reply, “Yes.”

“Great!” you chirp, rearing upright. This is so much better than a hard no. It is, in fact, exactly what you were angling for. “Holding you to that.” You smirk at the look of surprise on Sev’s face when you swoop down to grab your bag. You’ve got him right where you want him; he can’t squirm his way out of it in a fortnight.

“Stop looking so pleased with yourself,” he growls. “I only said we’d discuss it.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” you reply, sticking out your tongue as you head toward the door. You give your hips an extra waggle, sure he’s watching. Then you throw a wink at him over your shoulder and purr, “Later, professor” in the most seductive tone you can muster. Severus closes his eyes in annoyance.

You laugh as you leave the office. Over the next two weeks, you plan on driving him so crazy he _has_ to give in.

The plan starts the following Monday. You didn’t see him over the weekend, lulling him into a false sense of security and “proving” that you’ll be a good girl. But as soon as the week begins, you put your wicked hat back on.

You don’t consider that he could construe this plan as cruel. Turning this whole awful situation into a game makes it easier to deal with—and it makes you less sad and worried. Plus it ensures he doesn’t forget you. 

That’s something you’re paranoid about. What if, once your incredible sexual chemistry is absent, Severus realizes how boring or annoying he finds you? What if his head clears and he realizes there’s so much more to life than sex? You feel like you’ve grown close—you consider your relationship open and intimate—but you’re not sure he feels the same. He’s so deep...what if he finds you shallow? What if he’s just humoring you? What if you’re not as good of friends as you think?

You know he’s not in love with you—there’s too much blocking that, including but not limited to Lily Evans—and the fact that he hasn’t said those three little words seems to confirm that. But if the sex goes away, will _any_ amount of affection remain?

It worries you. And these are not things you can simply ask him. You don’t have the guts. Hence the plan...cruel or not.

That morning, you put on the shortest skirt you own and reduce the length another couple inches with the help of your wand. It no longer _technically_ abides by school standards, but you doubt anyone will notice. And if they do, what are a few house points when you’re trying to seduce your Potions Master?

Thigh-high stockings and the tightest uniform top you have complete the picture. You also spend a lot of time on hair and makeup—tousled curls and a seductive smokey eye. The result is fairly impressive—you’re satisfied, at least—and Step One of the plan is to just keep this up, every day. Look as good as you can. He’ll notice.

You head down to the Great Hall, planning to enact Step Two at breakfast. Namely, his least favorite move of yours—the wand tip to the lower lip. It’s never failed to get his attention yet.

Before you can take a conspicuous seat at the end of the Slytherin table, however, you’re waylaid by the Weasley twins, both of whom are beaming widely.

“[Last name]!” Fred cheers as the boys enfold you in their arms, moving around and ruffling your carefully tousled hair. You can’t help but laugh as you push them off you.

George staggers back, grinning and flushed, and leans back to regard you carefully. “Looking good today, darling,” he says, then he considers a second, glancing at his twin. “Not as good as me and Fred, but good.”

You laugh again. They’re hyper today. “What’s going on?” you say, and when the twins’ expressions go falsely surprised and innocent, you shake your head. “I know trouble when I see it. Spill.”

Fred lowers his voice, and both boys move close, so you can’t help but notice how good they smell. 

“If you’re a clever girl—” Fred says.

“And we know you are,” George adds.

“—there’s no doubt you've noticed that an important date is approaching,” Fred finishes.

“Less than three weeks away, in fact,” his twin says.

You stare back and forth between the boys, puzzled. Exams aren’t until June, and neither is the end of the Triwizard Tournament. So what...?

“April Fools Day?” you hazard.

“Right!” George says.

“And so, so _wrong,”_ Fred adds.

You’re giggling now. “Is this a fucking riddle?”

“Something very important is happening on April first,” George says.

“We figured you’d like to be invited,” Fred continues. They’re on form today, but that’s no surprise. They usually get more “twinsy” when they’re excited about something.

“April first...” you muse. There’s something niggling at the back of your head...

“Yeah...?” the twins say together, goading you on.

You glance at George, who’s watching you eagerly, and suddenly it clicks. “Your birthday!” you say.

“We have a winner!” George exclaims.

“Took you long enough,” Fred says, rolling his eyes, and you laugh. 

“So what are we doing?” you ask.

Suddenly, both boys look shifty, glancing around in case of eavesdroppers. The Hall around you is noisy and chaotic, however—it’s a bit ridiculous.

“We can’t discuss it here,” Fred says nonetheless, grinning widely to show he’s playing a game.

“Yeah,” George says, playing along. “Never know who could be listening...” He presses close to you, taking your hand and pushing a folded up piece of parchment inside. “Read that when you’re in a safe place,” he whispers into your ear.

Both boys pull back and throw you exaggerated winks before glancing around suspiciously and folding their hands innocently behind their backs. They start whistling as they stroll, _extremely casually,_ away from you, and you’re doubled over laughing in seconds. 

When you calm yourself and deposit your ass on the Slytherin bench, you unfold the note George gave you.

_SAVE THE DATE!_

_March 31st, 1995_

_Meet at the statue of Gregory the Smarmy at 22:00 on the dot to celebrate the birth of two of the best people you will ever meet._

_Attendance is mandatory._

_AND DON’T TELL ANYONE!_

_Love,_

_Fred and George Weasley, Esquires._

* * *

You—damnable girl!—have been making Snape’s life hell for the past week.

It feels like the start of the year all over—what it was like after sleeping with you that first time, knowing what your body is like, being drawn to your eyes...but not being able to touch.

Except this time, it’s worse. This time, there’s the emotional intimacy to miss too. Missing you as a person, not simply an object of desire. He can’t hate you or resent you to make this easier for himself, either.

Well...maybe he can resent you a little. You are, after all, doing everything in your power to kill him, and if it’s not entirely calculated and purposeful, he’ll absolutely die of shock.

He noticed it first last Monday, when you sat at the Slytherin table and pressed the tip of your wand to your mouth in that annoyingly attractive way you have. You also shifted and swept back your robes, folding your legs to expose an indecent amount of thigh, and before Snape realized he was staring, your eyes flicked over to him. And you looked smug. 

It’s been the same every day since. Snape always finds you attractive, but this week he can tell you’re actually putting _effort_ into it. You’re doing something different with your hair, he’s fairly sure, and it’s irritating how flattering it is. And he knows for sure that your skirts have progressively gotten shorter, your blouses buttoned lower, because he heard Sprout had taken points from you over it on Thursday.

You’re making yourself, not only attractive, but sex-on-a-bloody-stick.

He hasn’t mentioned it to you himself, because by doing so he admits defeat. He can’t let you know he has noticed the way you’ve been leaning forward in your desk during class to show off the curves of your breasts, or the way your knees seem to always be spread a little too wide. He can’t comment on the way you lounge seductively on the desktop during Felix maintenance, showing off your legs. He can’t let his eyes skim over you, though with every day that passes, the need feels more urgent. And he _certainly_ cannot touch you.

_It’s only been two weeks. She is not a bloody drug, and I am not going through withdrawal._

But you are killing him.

It’s not as if he could be accused of being the most patient or tranquil person himself, so why you insist on frustrating him the way you do, he doesn’t understand. You realize you are torturing him, he’s sure you do, and it seems all he does nowadays is send you warning glances and avert his eyes. You just smile each time. And you don’t stop.

By Friday, Snape is gritting his teeth to get through the day. At least, over the weekend, you won’t have an excuse to be around. He can lock himself away and deal with his frustration in a more...manual and independent way.

But first, one more class with you. Just after the bell rings, Snape asks Advanced Potions for their essays on the Death-Cap Draught. He catches your smirk as he strolls past you to snatch up your parchment—indeed, it’s impossible not to, with that deep red lipstick staining your perfect lips (a new addition as of a few days ago, which he grudgingly admits makes you look like a bloody sex bomb). You’re up to something, he knows it. But what?

As the class begins today’s brew, Snape takes a seat behind his desk and buries his head in the essays he just collected—anything so he won’t have to look at you. Your skirt is barely longer after Sprout’s reprimand, and he’s fairly sure the hem is slowly creeping up your thighs as the days pass. He can’t deal with that.

He gets through Zimmer’s essay—well-written and comprehensive, if a bit dry, as usual—and flips the sheet over. Yours is the next on the pile. Snape glances at your neat, womanly writing, suddenly sorely tempted to simply give it an E and move on. Even looking at your handwriting seems difficult at the moment, because it forces your lovely image into his head. 

But he’s not that weak. Sighing, he bends over it, green pen poised to comment and correct.

 _Amanita phalloides, commonly known as the death cap,_ your essay begins, _is a highly toxic basidiomycete fungus, one of many deadly members of the genus Amanita. Widely distributed across Europe, though now sprouting in other parts of the world, these large fruiting mushrooms appear in summer and autumn. The caps are generally greenish in color, with a white stipe and gills._

_Bored yet? Me too. Let’s talk about something more interesting. Such as, what I’m going to do to you when you finally lift this stupid ban._

Snape inhales sharply, staring at the parchment, then chances a glance up at the class. They’re all working diligently over their cauldrons—including you. Though is it his imagination, or is there still a smirk playing around your lips?

He re-reads the essay’s second paragraph, sure for a second he must be hallucinating. He’s not. And you only continue as the “essay” goes on.

 _This is driving me crazy, and I plan on showing you exactly_ _how_ _crazy, professor. Maybe today, I’ll stay behind after class. And even though you’ll (doubtlessly) send me some kind of exasperated look, I won’t let you say no. I’ve noticed you’re ignoring me, but that won’t last. I’ll climb up on your desk and spread my legs, and you won’t be_ _able_ _to ignore me. Because I’ll be there, just in front of you, touching myself as I moan your name._

Snape looks up sharply, as if he was reading out loud, or somehow the other students could tell what your words on that parchment say. _You damnable girl._ It’s the middle of class, and you’ve managed to utterly turn him on without even glancing at him. He can’t help but imagine the scene perfectly, and a perfect mix of irritation and desire bubbles inside him as he looks at you.

Writing this instead of an essay...you wicked, evil thing...

At that moment, you glance up and meet his eye, actually jumping at the intensity of his gaze. Snape knows you know exactly why he’s staring at you like this, however, as your look of concern slowly morphs into a self-satisfied smile.

His lips tighten, and he slowly shakes his head at you, resisting the urge to look back down at your bloody “essay” and read more about what you’re going to do for him. He glimpses more words there— _panties, lick, tremble, suck—_ and he knows he can’t read it in class.

“[Last name],” he calls from his desk, voice harsh and clearly irritated, but your grin only widens.

“Sir?”

“See me after class,” Snape says, feeling his lip curl. Malkovich glances at you, concerned, and you remember to plaster on a look of fear as you shrug at him.

He grits his teeth over the next thirty minutes, placing the damn essay in his drawer so he doesn’t have to look at it and concentrating as hard as he can on the other students’ papers. His fingers are twitching, though. He’s frankly not sure what he’s going to do when he gets you alone. Though he spends quite a lot of time working through all the possibilities.

Finally, the bell rings, and the class shuffles out. You linger behind, still wearing that damnable scarlet smile.

“Shut the door,” Snape says, curt and snappish, and you just to do so. Your grin falters a little as you realize that he could actually be angry with you.

You put your back to the door, looking up at him sheepishly from beneath your lashes. Not breaking eye contact, his face grim, Snape reaches into his desk drawer and withdraws your essay.

“Tell me,” he says, dangerously soft, showing you the parchment, “what is _this?”_

“Okay,” you reply, holding up your hands, looking quite nervous. “Hear me out.”

Snape stands abruptly, planting his hands on his desk to lean toward you, baring his teeth. “I suppose you must find this very amusing,” he snarls. “Watching me squirm.” 

You look surprised by this. “Squirm?” you say. “I was just trying to have some fun.”

 _“Fun?”_ Snape spits. He moves suddenly, rounding his desk toward you, cloak billowing behind him. He watches your clever eyes flick over him, watches you pick up on what’s happening here. Your expression is torn between panic and satisfaction as he reaches out, grabs you by your green tie and pulls you forcefully against him.

“Sir...” you whisper, which you only call him around others or during sex, and the muttered word goes straight to his cock. It breaks whatever gossamer strands of resolve Snape still clings to. He lets out a slow breath, feeling your soft breasts against his chest, and leans down to look directly into your rapidly dilating pupils.

“While you may have been having _fun_ this past week, Miss [Last name],” he whispers, “I assure you, I have not.”

* * *

You inhale, smiling. The “essay” must really have gotten to him. As soon as he grabbed your tie, you knew this wasn’t a real argument. He’d never actually grab you in anger. 

“Maybe I can fix that for you,” you say, eyes latched on his broad, expressive mouth. 

Severus jerks you closer to him in response. He’s still sneering, but the hand that isn’t clutching your tie brings your body thudding against his by the lower back. He opens his mouth to say something. Probably something mean...you love it when he gets all mean.

But as sometimes happens, Fate decides to take that exact moment to be a complete asshole. 

Severus’ office door starts to creak open, and a voice from out in the hallway drawls, “Professor?”

You wrench away from each other instantly—and quickly enough this time, thank god. Severus is halfway back to his desk by the time that Draco Malfoy kid comes through the doorway.

He’s regarding you coolly, one eyebrow quirked in a way you think he must have learned from Severus. You almost curse. This feels like a fucking sign—no more breaking the damn rules

Severus has only told you a little of Draco Malfoy—he was fairly close to his father, Lucius, during the first war. The boy comes from a long line of blood supremacists, not to mention a very powerful Pureblood family, but Severus can’t help but like him nonetheless. He’s known him since he was an infant, after all, and he is proving to be a talented wizard. He’s cunning and ambitious, a true Slytherin. Severus feels that, despite his dark upbringing, the kid has a good moral compass. He feels confident that Draco Malfoy will be a better man than his father.

You pulled apart before Draco came fully into the room—you’re sure he didn’t see you pressed close—but he is regarding you with vague interest. His gray eyes roam over your body so thoroughly you almost cross your arms in front of your chest. 

“Draco,” Severus says in a gentler voice than you usually hear him reserve for students. The kid’s pale eyes are lingering on you, and the look he’s giving you makes you defensive. As if you shouldn’t be here, in his territory. But this is more _your_ territory than _his!_ You’ve never so much as glimpsed him in the potions office. “Ah,” Sev says after a beat of silence. “We had an appointment, didn’t we?”

Finally, those gray eyes rip away from you. Draco’s gaze is extremely direct, more confident than most fourth years you’ve met. “Who’s this?” he asks, gesturing to you rather rudely. 

Sev’s black eyebrows raise, but his voice remains mild. “This is [First name] [Last name],” he says. “A seventh year who is assisting me with an extracurricular project. [Last name], this is Draco Malfoy.”

Draco nods and saunters into the room, putting a hand to his pointed chin while he considers this. He has a fair amount of swagger, you think, and your lips want to twitch into a smile. That’s a lot of dignity and pomposity for a young teenager. You assume it’ll look better when he’s older; right now it’s a bit ridiculous, but it makes you inexplicably fond of him. Despite what Fred and George say.

“Ah, yes,” Draco muses, and you have to stifle a laugh. ‘ _Ah, yes’? Are you an 85-year-old vicomte?_ “I think I’ve heard of you. The American.”

You glance at Severus, fully grinning now, and he avoids your eyes because it looks like he might smile too. 

“You make me sound so mysterious,” you tease Draco, who stops his lazy pacing to look at you. _“The American._ Like I’m an international spy.”

Draco’s eyes move up and down your body again, slower this time, and a grin spreads over his lips. You’ve never been this blatantly checked out by a fourteen-year-old before. You almost snort in amusement.

“Well, are you?” Draco asks, voice low and suggestive. “You look like you could be.” 

_The little flirt!_ You glance at Severus again, and he is doing everything in his power not to laugh, his eyes fixed determinedly on a spot near your right elbow.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” you reply, quirking an eyebrow enigmatically. Draco smiles, watching you with those hooded eyes, not intimidated by your teasing at all. It surprises you—you’d expect embarrassment in a boy his age. Hell, you can get George and even Fred to blush when you lower your voice suggestively like that. Draco Malfoy, however, is blush-proof.

“You may leave, [Last name],” Severus cuts in dryly, but when you smile at him, you can tell he’s amused. “I assume Draco has come in to make up the test he missed. It will take some time.”

“Right,” you say, glancing back at Draco. The kid has draped himself into a chair the way Benji Zabini might, pulling out some parchment from his satchel. You go gather your own bag, and you feel him watch you do it, gaze sliding along your backside as you bend down. 

“Eyes on your work, Mr. Malfoy,” Severus says lazily.

“Scenery’s improved in here,” you hear Draco mutter as he bends back over his desk, and you come up quickly, mouth open, torn between gasping and laughing. Who does this kid think he is, saying that to a teacher!

But Severus doesn’t admonish him, which you reflect is probably the problem. You turn to him, mouth open in amusement and shock, making an _aren’t you going to say something?_ face. But Severus just shrugs, like _the kid has a point._ He still looks like he wants to laugh.

“Later, then, professor,” you say, unable to help chuckling a little as you start toward the door. “And...nice to meet you Draco.”

“You too, [First name],” Draco says, looking up to smirk. 

You shake your head at him, amused and bewildered by this kid, but you stop in your tracks upon a final glance at Severus. “And sir?” He looks up at you. “Think about what we discussed, will you?” You mean the whole “breaking the rules” thing, and you can tell he understands instantly.

“I will, [Last name],” he says. “We’ll talk on Monday.”

Figuring that’s better than nothing, you leave Sev’s office.

* * *

You don’t see each other on Saturday or Sunday—as if by being good, you’ll earn a reward. But he simply can’t give you the good news you’re hoping for. In fact, by the time the weekend is over, he is more convinced than ever that the only way to survive the rest of the year is to keep your hands off each other.

Draco asked questions about you once you left his office. It didn’t necessarily surprise Snape—he is a teenaged boy, and you are a beautiful young woman. And most of them were innocuous enough, things Snape could answer with the candor Draco has come to expect of him over the years—are you any good at potions? Are you smart? Are you nice? He’s been wanting a tutor in Potions, and he seemed particularly interested in you taking on that role, but Snape had to shut down _that_ little fantasy at once. He can’t imagine Draco would get any learning done with you in the room.

But there were other questions Draco posed too. Questions that felt awkward and pointed, or perhaps Snape is just getting paranoid. How old are you? Does Snape like you much? Do you have a boyfriend? 

“I don’t know,” Snape had said, rubbing his forehead in exhaustion. The boy was thoughtfully silent for a moment. Then he moved on.

“Well, what does she want you to think about? The thing you discussed?”

“That, Draco, is between me and Miss [Last name].”

And that’s when Draco stared at him hard for a long moment. Then he smirked and leaned back cockily in his seat. “She’s quite fit,” he said confidently. “Don’t you think so?”

“No,” Snape lied flatly.

Draco scoffed. “Liar. I can tell you like her.”

Snape had a hard time holding it together at that, though he considers it a success, all things considered. He told the boy that simply because _Draco_ found you attractive, it did not mean every other male on the planet had the same opinion. But if he was so very interested in you, Snape would be happy to speak to you for him. Perhaps set up a date. Draco had been flustered by this—Snape has long learned how to get under his skin—and he’d finally shut up and finished his exam.

But that “I can tell you like her” bit bothered Snape, and it continues bothering him over the weekend. By the time you come down for Felix maintenance on Monday, his decision is crystallized.

“You’re too much of a temptation,” he explains, watching you where you sit before his desk as you start to pout. “The more allowances we give ourselves...”

“We could at least try!” you argue. 

Snape plants his hands on his desk, leaning over it intently to meet your eyes. “I think you underestimate the interest others have in us,” he says firmly. “You are a beautiful girl, and I apparently cannot hide my attraction to you.” You scoff, folding your arms, and Snape counts off briskly on his fingers: “Harper knew. Dumbledore mentioned it at the Yule Ball. Draco could tell after _one_ interaction.” He watches your eyes, looking for comprehension, and he finds it there. 

Still, you try to argue. “The only reason they noticed _anything_ is because you’re usually so cold to people,” you say, and even though he knows it’s true, it stings. He wonders—he frequently wonders—if you would prefer him more if he was gentle.

“That’s not the point,” Snape spits defensively.

“I’m just saying,” you shoot back, “being nice to me isn’t a fucking crime.”

“Yes,” Snape sneers, “and wouldn’t it be nice if we had the right to be so sanctimonious?” You throw him a warning glance, but he barrels on. “Because while _being nice_ isn’t a crime, [First name], sleeping with you is tantamount to one. And even if that technically doesn’t qualify, Obliviating Harper Hollingsworth _certainly_ does.”

“I get that we have shit to hide!” you exclaim. “I’m not saying we don’t! I’m just saying, the all-or-nothing approach isn’t the _only_ way to do this.”

“Yes. It. _Is,”_ Snape insists, leaning further toward you. He’s starting to feel a bit angry because he wishes you would make this easy on him. Of course he _wants_ to agree with you—of bloody _course_ he does. But he can’t, because _someone_ needs to be the voice of reason here. “We are _asking_ for trouble, [First name], and I don’t understand how you fail to see that.” He regards you, and something cold and begrudging creeps into his head. “Or perhaps you simply don’t care. As Hollingsworth said, _I_ am the one with the most at stake.”

Instantly, you turn to stare at him, shocked and angry. “How can you even _say that?”_ you demand, rising from your chair. “You know that isn’t fair.”

“Then why,” Snape asks, teeth gritted and eyes closed, “does the burden always fall to _me_ to be careful? _”_

 _“Careful?”_ you cry. “Okay, Mr. Fuck-Me-in-a-Hallway!”

“I don’t enjoy this any more than you do, you frustrating girl!” Snape bites out harshly. He pushes quickly off the desk, needing to pace. He wonders vaguely when this became a fight. He supposes he was looking for one. “I don’t _enjoy_ making these rules, I’m doing it to _protect us.”_

“I want to protect us too!” you reply.

Snape lunges toward you, his hand coming up to grip your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Then _act. Like. It.”_

You jerk away from him, looking disgusted. “Fine,” you say, raising your arms in an aggressive shrug. “Check it out. This is me _acting like it.”_

And you stride quickly toward the door. Snape watches you leave—just barely containing yourself from slamming it behind you. Then he leans against his desk and sighs.


	38. Longing and Rebellion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! The good news is, the next chapter will be out tomorrow (back to back!) There was no clear stopping point, so this kind of awkwardly cuts off, but I split them up to keep the length down so it’s not unreadable.
> 
> I love you my sweet little jellybeans. See you tomorrow!

* * *

_You make me feel a little older,  
Like a full-grown woman might.  
But when you're gone, I grow colder.  
Come to me again  
In the cold, cold night._

"In the Cold, Cold Night" - The White Stripes

* * *

You manage to remain angry with Severus for precisely twelve hours. Most of it probably comes from the disappointment of being unable to seduce him. But you also think he was overly mean about the whole rejection. As usual. He rarely knows when to reel in his harsh tongue.

However, the argument bothers you through dinner and into the night. You find it difficult to drift off when you climb into bed. And at 3:30 in the morning, your eyes pop open from fitful dreams.

You lay in the dark, listening to the soft sounds of your sleeping roommates and staring at the green canopy above you. You’re turning the conversation this afternoon over and over in your mind, examining every side of it. And you’re coming to the rather annoying conclusion that perhaps your anger is unwarranted. That perhaps, in fact, _you_ are the bad guy here.

You were acting, as he said, like you don’t care.

You don’t sleep for the rest of the night. In the morning, you slump down to breakfast—it’s Saturday, so there’s luckily no class. You’re not sure your exhausted brain could take it. You’re wearing a baggy sweater and leggings, oddly relieved to be giving up the femme fatale look. It takes a lot of energy to try so hard.

 _And it’s not like it went to waste,_ you think, glancing up sheepishly to where Sev sits at the teachers’ table. _He noticed. He just wasn’t happy about it._

You cringe, thinking back on yesterday, then hunker down in your seat to avoid his eyes. Over the course of the meal, Colin asks if you’re okay, remarks that you look tired. You tell him it’s just because you’re not wearing makeup for the first time in a week (which probably doesn’t help matters anyway).

You linger in the Great Hall after breakfast, trying to come up with a game plan as you furtively watch Severus’ tall black figure disappear toward the dungeons. One on hand, you want to talk to him. On the other, going to him now would violate the plan, wouldn’t it? If he was just your teacher, you’d never visit him on a Saturday.

So you linger in the library, trying to study, then trying to finish some homework, then trying to simply read a novel. By noon you’re just curled up in a chair near the window, staring blankly out to the gray, windswept grounds.

You could avoid him for the foreseeable future. It’s the road you usually take, after all, when the two of you fight. Remove yourself from any confrontation. But as the afternoon wears on, that feels less and less appealing...despite the fact that the prospect of talking to him makes you nervous.

A loud, familiar laugh makes you look up to see Fred, George and Lee enter the library together, immediately getting shushed by Madam Pince. They haven’t spotted you yet, but it’s only a matter of time. And you’re really not in the mood for friends. There’s only one person in the castle you want to talk to.

So you decide, _fuck it._ Your relationship is more important than the rules, and certainly more important than being non-confrontational. You scramble out of your chair, swipe up your satchel, wind around some bookcases to avoid the boys and rush from the library.

Upon trying the door to Severus’ office, you find it locked, and it gives you pause again. He’s obviously not “open for business,” as it were, and you feel like it kind of defeats the purpose if you barge in...but you do really need to talk...

You take a deep breath, glance around to make sure you’re alone and pull on the chain around your neck, bringing his office key up from under your shirt. You slide it easily into the lock—the motion feels second nature at this point—and open the door.

He’s sitting at his desk, and he looks up when you enter, a brief moment of confusion flashing over his striking, angular features. But when it fades, it’s not into anger, as you worried it would be. He just watches, silent, purposely keeping his face blank. Waiting for you to speak.

You come fully inside and close the door behind you, leaning back against it. You stare at the floor, chewing somewhat nervously on the inside of your cheek. You can’t quite meet his eye.

“Hi,” you say finally, after a long beat of silence.

“Hello,” he replies evenly. There’s a bit of a question in his tone— _what are you doing here?_ You suppose you don’t look like you’re spoiling for a fight, and maybe he can’t believe his luck. He’s dealt with you too often to think you’re one of those people who easily lets go of anger.

Except, of course, when you’re in the wrong. And you’re determined to show him you know it when you are. Act with the maturity he expects from you. Act as if you were his age. 

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” you begin, and his brows immediately raise, his dark eyes flicking back and forth across your face. He wasn’t expecting this. “My behavior this week...” You shrug, eyes dropping back to the floor. “You’re right. That was unfair of me. That was...rash and reckless.” You swallow, feeling your mouth run away with you, as usual, but you can’t stop, and he’s not trying to stop you either. “And then I got mad at you. _I_ got mad at _you_ for getting frustrated, even though _I_ was the one who was doing exactly what we discussed we wouldn’t, and you were completely in the right. I should be taking this seriously. I should be taking _us_ seriously.”

You glance up at him. He’s just watching, listening, giving nothing away. No smile, but no frown either. He looks focused, if anything, his dark eyes examining you intently.

“I do take us seriously,” you add. “I do care about this. You know? About us.” You’re fishing a little now, but you want _some_ kind of reaction from him. Pleasure, disgust...Anything to let you know how seriously _he_ takes this relationship. Does he really want to preserve it, or is he simply preserving himself? Not that that wouldn’t be fair...but you’d like to know.

Severus watches you silently for a long moment. Then, finally, he speaks. “That is...very reassuring,” he says slowly. His eyes drop away from you, and your heart flutters—is he returning your sheepishness? “Thank you, [First name].” When he meets your eye again, there’s a deep furrow between his brows. “Really. Thank you.”

You feel weirdly elated. It feels like, by saying ‘thank you,’ he’s really admitting so much more. He’s saying he takes your relationship seriously too.

_Don’t read into it._

All the same, you can’t help yourself. You take a deep, exhilarated breath and say, “You're pretty much my favorite person.” You watch him lift an eyebrow, but he doesn't try to reject this. “So not being able to touch you, or even just hang out with you as much...” You bite your lip, watching him for a reaction. “It’s hard.” You shrug again. “I just...I like you so much.”

Severus’ eyes bore into you for a long, long moment. The crease between his brows becomes even deeper. He’s staring like you’re some strange artifact, something he’s never seen before, and he can’t work out your shape or your purpose.

You almost giggle. You’re not even sharing how deep your feelings really go—how would he react then, if this is such a shock?

It takes a long time—a bit too long—before he clears his throat and his eyes drop away from you. You watch him, chewing your cheek, nervous for his response. What if it’s cold? What if it’s dismissive? What if he frosts over, as he so often loves to do, and makes you feel like these past six months haven’t happened?

But mercifully, he does not.

“I...” Severus begins, speaking toward his inkpot, clearly trying to figure out what words to choose. He shakes his head briefly, then finally says, “The feeling is mutual.” 

A deep warmth floods you, and when his eyes meet yours again, you can’t help but flush and grin. This, however, only makes him look away again. His face is still very stern and focused.

“As I said,” he adds, “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

You gather another shaky breath, feeling flushed and pleased. You know that saying “I like you so much” to the man you’ve been having sex with for nearly four months shouldn’t be this big of a deal. But _he said it back._ Well, practically. And in the case of Severus Snape, that’s pretty fucking huge.

“Okay,” you reply, unable to keep from smiling. He meets your eye again, and his lips curve up a little. “So...friends?” you ask.

Severus’ smile grows the tiniest fraction. “More than friends,” he says softly.

You look away from him, flushing and smiling and biting your lip, like a first year with a crush. The urge to run forward and fling yourself into his arms is suddenly scarily strong, swelling with your heart. It’s more than longing—it’s almost painful to restrain yourself. 

You really love him. More than anything, you want to show him. Being in the same room with him and not being able to do so is suddenly really hard.

Your smile slips as you regard Severus for a long moment, slowly realizing how big of a problem this is. He catches the change in your expression, the way your brows furrow, and he straightens in his chair. The easy grin fades from his own features, replaced with concern, and you regret that.

“What?” he asks, and you can tell from his tone that he’s steeling for the worst.

“I may like you _too_ much,” you say after a beat, choosing your words carefully. Severus’ first instinct is, of course, to scoff, but you shake your head. “I’m serious, Sev. It’s hard to even look at you right now without...you know. Wanting to do more than look.”

He looks confused by this, and equally disbelieving. You’ve gotten the impression, over these months of knowing him, that he has no idea how attractive he is. You wonder why his past lovers never told him. But it takes emotional intimacy to say something like that, of course. Maybe the others never got close enough.

“What does that mean?” he asks curtly, cutting through your thoughts and ignoring the compliment.

You shrug, grimacing. “It means I...might have to limit contact.” You shake your head. “You know...avoid the temptation.”

“Limit contact,” Severus repeats flatly. He doesn’t sound happy.

“Not break up or anything,” you assure him quickly. “We’re definitely still exclusive, just...if I’m not around as much...”

“Is this some kind of punishment?” he asks, rather uncharitably.

“No!” you reply instantly. “I just told you how much I like you. That’s not fair.”

He has the decency to look away, shamed, his mouth pursed in a tight line. It takes a second, but when he speaks, his voice is gentler. “It cannot be _that_ difficult,” he says scornfully, “to resist... _this.”_ He gestures vaguely toward himself.

“I swear to god,” you reply, a bit shocked and offended by his self-deprecation. His black eyes lock back onto yours, searching for truth, and your mouth starts to run away with you again. “Jesus, Sev, you’re like my...” _Ideal man. You’re my ideal man, and I honestly can’t get enough, and every time I look at you, it’s torture._ You reel the words back at the last moment, swallowing. “I’m really into you.” You watch him react, watch him shake his head gently, but you don’t look away. He needs to understand. “You want me to be good, but as soon as we’re alone together, all I can think of is...” You trail off, flushing as he watches you intently.

There’s a long, silent moment as he looks at you. You can tell he doesn’t quite believe you—he thinks there’s some other motive here. It stings a little, that lack of trust, but you know him well enough to understand that this isn’t really about you.

And in the end, he decides not to punish you for it. “I...understand,” he replies, running a finger thoughtfully along his lips. Then he shrugs and smiles contemptuously. “Or at least, I accept it.”

“I’ll miss you,” you assure him, and you grin. “And maybe in a couple weeks, I’ll build up some kind of tolerance against your major sex appeal.”

Severus scoffs again, but there’s actual amusement there this time. “Let us only hope,” he replies mildly.

And so, for the next two weeks, you can only describe your interactions as “clinical.” They’re more heavily limited than they have been since the beginning of the year, since you were actively trying to avoid each other. There is no lingering after class, no discussions after Felix maintenance. You rush in and rush out, barely allowing yourself to glance at him. You’re polite, of course, and warm in those fleeting moments. But you can’t let yourself linger. Every second you stay, you feel your willpower crumbling.

The distance helps...you suppose. Certainly, not being around him as much allows you to focus on other things. Studying for the N.E.W.T.s, for one, and your other friends. And when you’re distracted, at least you’re not actively pining. Because at all other times, you are.

Classes are the worst. Two full hours with him in the same room...it’s torture. You find yourself watching his profile as he lectures, following his glittering dark eyes, your gaze roaming up and down his cloaked form. How is he this attractive? He’s so clever, so powerful...The skill of those fingers, and not just with ingredients...

_Stop. Eyes on your potion._

You keep thinking you’ll get used to it. Like one morning, you’ll wake up and stop wanting him, and it’ll be easier to look at him and not wish he could hold you. Like you’ll stop missing his mouth and the way he smells and the pleasure he brings. But it actually worsens as the days pass. And you have to come to the miserable realization: there’s no tolerance for this. 

Your heart starts to ache the longer it goes. You miss him badly, but you’re sure more interaction would only make that worse. Instead, you dive headlong into Colin and the Weasley twins, practically begging them to take your mind off it. Fred and George are especially good for this—there’s lots of exploring the castle, and you help with more than one prank. Plus they make you laugh.

Still, you’re melancholy. You wonder how Severus feels. He seems alright, or at least like himself—it’s not like he’s usually boisterous and merry—but part of you hopes he aches as much as you do.

March 31st, the night of the twins’ party, falls on a Friday, which you feel is an utter godsend. The school day is a nightmare, though. You feel extremely tightly wound—a headache has been blooming since lunch—and you wish you could just curl up with Sev. Every time you look at him, it’s worse. He’d be able to make you feel better, you know it. Closing your eyes, you can perfectly envision laying on his lap, his long fingers massaging gently at your temples.

He brushes by you at the end of class on his way to his desk, and while you’re sure it’s an accident, you hate him a little for it. You’ve been avoiding getting near enough to smell him for two weeks, but suddenly his delicious scent fills your nose, and everything wonderful about him rushes you with devastating force. You close your eyes against it, concentrating hard, until he’s gone and all you can smell is your own bubbling potion.

During Felix maintenance, you barely glance at him, and when he tries to initiate conversation, you tell him you’re really busy and race off. You catch his look of concern as you leave, and it makes you feel bad, but you’re so close to snapping. You can’t be around him. Your stupid subconscious is already crafting plans on how to get him alone and at your utter mercy, how to convince him to break the rules.

You don’t attend Club that night. You can’t, with Sev there. You need to cool off before you see him again, or you’re worried you’ll just drag him into the ingredients closet and...

_Stop that!_

Instead, you hole up in the library and force yourself to study. It’s not particularly beneficial—you don't think you really absorb anything, and you’re relieved when the bells chime for dinner.

After eating, you race back to the dorms. The prospect of Fred and George’s party tonight has been the only thing to keep you from flying apart. You’re so ready to relax and have a few drinks with good friends. You just hope you don’t get caught this time.

You still have a few hours, but you want to partake of the entire beauty ritual, and you don’t want to rush it. You start with a long shower, which includes shaving or charming every unseemly hair from your body. While your hair dries, wrapped in a towel, you slather on lotion, pluck your brows and progress to makeup—an edgy, smokey eye and a nude lip. 

It takes a long time. You glance at the clock—you’re supposed to meet the boys upstairs at ten—and notice you have less than half an hour. Slightly panicking, you decide to let your hair fall naturally, leaning into the bedhead look. Then you pull on your outfit, which you’ve been planning all day (it’s so rare you get to wear street clothes, it always feels like something you should take advantage of.)

A clingy black cotton dress comes first, hitting you mid-thigh and showing quite a bit of cleavage. You’re not sure how cold it’ll be—Fred and George have been dropping hints about the party taking place outside—so you shrug on your leather moto jacket and wrap an oversized red flannel around your waist, just in case. Black thigh-high stockings—something of a staple for you at this point—and heeled black boots complete the look. 

You’re pleased with your reflection. You look cool, edgy. You look ready to party.

Glancing at the clock again, you curse out loud. 9:53. You have seven minutes to make a ten minute walk. Throwing your cloak over your outfit to cover it on the way out of the common room, you slip into the darkened corridor.

You pass by Severus’ office door on the way upstairs and see candlelight burning beneath it. You cringe as a twinge of guilt hits, but you shove it down. You didn’t tell him about this party. With how badly he reacted to the previous one thrown by the Weasleys—and how deeply he dislikes George—you just figure he doesn’t really need to know.

Is that awful of you? Dishonest? Probably. You promise yourself you’ll tell him about it afterwards...ask forgiveness, not permission. But for now, nothing’s going to ruin the twins’ birthday.

You slip through Hogwarts’ deep shadows, avoiding popular hallways and burning torches, listening for patrolling faculty. But all is quiet. You’ve noticed, actually, that Hogwarts is fairly easy to sneak around. Which you suppose makes sense, given that the place is so vast, and the population that lives here is actually relatively small.

Still, you watch warily for the figures of Filch or Mrs. Norris. Or Peeves, god forbid. He might be the worst entity you could come across.

But you get to the first floor corridor which houses the statue of Gregory the Smarmy without any run-ins. You ran, so you hope you aren’t late—and it doesn’t seem you are. A small group of people gathers around the statue, whispering low.

Lee and Angelina are here, as are Alicia Spinnet and two other Gryffindor boys—you’ve met them, but you can’t remember their names (you think one of them might be called...Keith?) 

And the birthday boys themselves are here too, of course, looking handsome in their casual t-shirts and jackets.

You wave as you jog near, wondering if you’re the last to arrive, and George spins around quickly, his arms shooting out to beckon you into an embrace.

“[First name]!” he exclaims happily, and Angelina shushes him in a way that expresses she’s done this more than once tonight.

“Voice down, mate,” Lee reminds him furtively.

“But it’s [First name]!” George declares defiantly, staggering toward you and wrapping you in his arms.

You giggle. You can smell the wine on him, and he’s clearly flushed and slurring. Drunk already.

“Smell so good,” he coos in your ear, giving you a squeeze and maybe hugging you a little longer than necessary. 

“Happy birthday,” you whisper, and you let the hug last a few more seconds before gently disentangling yourself and moving to greet the others.

You hug Fred, then Lee, who whispers, “Glad you made it.”

Angelina beams and reaches out to hug you too. You return it, surprised and delighted. You like Angelina immensely, but she’s a bit hard to read—you’re glad she likes you enough to embrace you.

“Shall we go, then?” she asks the group at large. “Now everyone’s here.”

The others nod, and you glance around, confused. “Go where?”

In lieu of an answer, Fred swaggers unsteadily forward (how much wine did the birthday boys get into before this? No one else seems as wasted as they already are.) He places a broad hand on the head of the statue beside them. 

_“Patefacium,_ mate,” he says to the statue, as though addressing an old friend. You giggle as a familiar grinding of stone begins and the statue seems to come alive under his hand—Hogwarts is opening another secret to you.

The figure of Gregory the Smarmy comes to life. He regards the group silently for a long moment, a slightly disapproving grimace around his stone lips, then nods at Fred and George and steps backwards into the wall. You can’t see where he goes, but suddenly in his place is a large hole that leads into a dark tunnel. After lighting your wand tips, the party starts filing silently inside. George lingers beside you, wrapping a warm arm around your shoulders. You try asking him where the tunnel leads, but he just puts a finger to his lips and winks cheekily.

You follow the group into darkness, hearing Gregory the Smarmy clomp back into place behind you. The darkness is complete, pushed back only by the feeble light of your wands. Once you’re a few yards away from the castle corridor, the group’s voices start to rise—hushed at first, then louder, joined by laughter and jostling. You assume wherever you are, wherever you’re going, you don’t have to be as quiet as you were in the school corridors.

You glance up at George, who’s laughing at something Lee is saying, and nudge him gently in the side. He still has his arm around you—it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere—and he glances down at you immediately, curious.

 _“Now_ can you tell me where we’re going?” you ask.

“And ruin the surprise?” he replies, looking shocked. “Who do you think we are, [Last name]?”

“Yeah, [Last name],” Fred calls from up ahead. “Who do you think we are?” His tone tells you he has no idea what you were talking about.

You laugh and let it go. You’ll find out soon enough, anyway.

The trip is longer than you’re expecting, though, and soon the tunnel becomes colder, and the rough stone walls turn to packed earth, making it clear that you’re traveling underground. You doubt you’re in Hogwarts anymore, and while the idea sends a thrill of apprehension through you—not only are you up past curfew, you’re sneaking off the castle grounds?—you’re mostly just excited. 

After twenty minutes, the tunnel starts sloping upwards. You can feel cold seeping in through the packed dirt walls, and you’re suddenly thankful for George’s warm arm still draped heavily over your shoulders. Only a few moments later, Fred and Angelina come to a stop at a large boulder blocking the path. Once again, Fred puts his hand on it and says _patefacium._ Rumbling, the stone rolls to the side.

You step out of the tunnel into a little wooded clearing, bathed with bright moonlight, an empty firepit in the center. For a second, hesitating, you worry this is the Forbidden Forest, but George pushes you forward, leaning down to whisper into your ear, “Go on. It’s alright.”

His breath sends goosebumps down your arms, and you turn to grin at him before stepping out into the quiet woods. The early Spring air is a bit chilly, but rather refreshing after the long, dark underground journey.

Lee is already at the firepit, waving his wand to create a burst of flame while Fred grumbles beside him about having to wait another hour and a half before he’s of age and able to do any magic. Alicia and the two other boys take seats on weathered stumps, warming their hands, and Angelina sets a clinking bag down on the ground and starts withdrawing bottle after bottle of spirits.

“Where are we?” you ask George as he leads you toward the fire. 

He shrugs as Angelina hands you a bottle of red wine—seemingly to have to yourself, since she hands George another one of his own. “Woods outside of Hogsmeade,” he replies. 

“We won’t be bothered here,” Fred adds, lifting his bottle toward you. You return the gesture, and the group cheers, clinking and drinking.

Laughing, you let George settle you on a surprisingly comfortable fallen log before he drops heavily beside you, taking a deep pull of his wine. You fold your legs, bemoaning your short skirt a little as the rough bark scratches the backs of your thighs—yet again, the compulsion to look cute has gotten in the way of being comfortable.

But soon you forget about it, getting lost in conversation and laughter. Everyone’s moods are high, and voices start to rise as your group gets comfortable. The amount of alcohol the students have managed to get their hands on is kind of obscene, and the others are drinking like it’s going out of style. You decide to start slow, taking small sips. Not that you’re against the idea of getting drunk tonight, but...well...George. 

You turn to look at him, the firelight dancing off his freckled face as he leans forward and laughs at something Alicia said. He’s pressed up against your side, an arm wrapped around your hips, and you’re not complaining, but he hasn’t stopped touching you since you arrived. It’s kind of a lot. He’s more flirty than usual, clearly confident and in high spirits (not to mention deep in cups). Never anything gross, of course...but you get the feeling he’s planning on making a major move tonight.

And the more wine you have, the more appealing that sounds. The further away Severus seems to be. The longer your dry spell feels. And you remember George’s breath and hands, his fire and laughter. The way he smells. And you’d be lying if you said it isn’t tempting.

But you’d rather die than let something like wine jeopardize your relationship with Sev. _That_ is the most amazing, most important thing you’ve ever experienced. Sticky fumblings in the woods with a newly of-age teenager do not measure up. Trouble is, when it comes to George Weasley, you just don’t trust yourself.

So you slow your wine intake drastically. Let the others get fucked up—you don’t need more than a little buzz to have fun. Plus, this way you can laugh at their antics.

And antics they are. The closer you get to midnight, the rowdier the party becomes. Laughter is loud and often, and soon your cheeks are flushed red with mirth—god, you know how funny the twins are, but they surround themselves with hilarious friends too. You learn the two Gryffindor boys are named Kenneth Towler and Elliot Gold.

Elliot is great, and Kenneth is too. Well, at first. He’s not a good drunk—you can perfectly correlate the amount of drinks he’s had with his level of obnoxious. Rowdy and abrasive and lessy funny (which is a shame, since he’s very nice when he’s sober). Lee whispers furtively to you at one point that they weren’t going to invite Towler, but Alicia begged.

“Has a bloody great crush on him,” Lee confides to you at one point. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have bothered.” You look across the fire to where Alicia is slowly trying to squirm her way onto Kenneth’s lap, and you laugh. 

The group plays drinking games (you often fudge your drinks or take tiny sips) and sings songs. At one point, Fred drags Angelina up and starts mock-ballroom-dancing with her, while the rest of you clap and stomp your feet, singing a loud sea shanty. At the end, he spins her around, flushed and giggling, and brings her against him to kiss her.

The rest of the group immediately boos loudly.

“Oi!” Fred says, breaking away from Angelina. “Don’t be jealous. There’s enough of me to go ‘round.” He turns to Elliot. “You first, big boy.”

Calling his bluff, Elliot jumps up and tackles Fred to the ground, trying to shower him with kisses. The rest of you dissolve into laughter while Fred tries to wrestle him away.

At five till midnight, Lee’s watch beeps, and he pauses the game you were playing to make sure everyone has a drink in preparation for midnight. George sends you a brilliant, excited smile, bouncing a little in his seat as he squeezes you against his side, and you can’t help but giggle. Neither twin can wait to be of age, and you don’t blame them. You remember only too well the distinct first pleasure of doing magic outside of school.

As the last few minutes tick away, Lee bids the entire group to stand and hold out your drinks in a toast. He leads an enthusiastic countdown to midnight, and right at the stroke of the new day, you, Lee and Angelina shoot red and gold sparks into the air, screaming, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

Fred and George laugh, delighted, and add their own now-legal sparks to the fray. Then George reaches out and wraps his arms around you. He pulls you close and twirls you around until you’re dizzy and gleeful, until the firelight swirls giddily around you and the others are dancing too, yelling and laughing.

You giggle wildly as George spins you out and pulls you back in, tripping a little and stumbling against his chest. He catches you, and you can’t help but feel how solid and warm he is as he staggers to a stop against you. The sudden halt jolts you, and you look up into his chocolate eyes, gleaming with mirth and exhilaration. You find you’re suddenly breathless. The world around you seems to mute, the others feel very far away. The only thing you can see is the firelight dancing in George Weasley’s dark eyes.

He swoops down slowly toward you, reading your eyes for acceptance or rejection. And his full mouth seems to draw your gaze—you remember so clearly how it feels—and your body can’t help but revel in the way he holds you, his warmth and the way his firm stomach meets yours. He’s tempting. You’re tempted. You can’t deny it.

And for this exact reason, you’re so glad you didn’t get drunk.

You dodge his incoming lips at the last second, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek instead and wrapping your arms firmly around his neck (a classic move known to all girls in the process of friendzoning). You hug him, rocking him back and forth, and he laughs easily. Perpetually unruffled, that’s your George. It’s part of why you love him.

You move away to give your congratulations to Fred after a bit, still a little flushed. Soon, the party equalizes back into games and songs. The night is young, and the liquor never seems to run out, but you contain yourself to your single bottle of wine as the hours pass. Not so for the others.

Fred and George are especially wasted—drunker than you’ve ever seen them, anyway—but you’re pleased to find they’re wonderful drunks. Not that you’d expect anything less, but some people can get mean or annoying when they have enough alcohol in them. Not the twins. They get louder, yes, and they frequently cast inane spells just to prove they can, but they're just as sweet and funny as ever.

At 3AM, you’re sitting on the log with Angelina, who is leaning heavily against you while Alicia stands behind her, braiding her hair. She’s been pontificating for the past twenty minutes on how much she likes Fred and, drunkenly melancholic, wonders if he likes her back. You figure, since he can’t keep his lips off her, that this is indeed the case, and you and Alicia copiously reassure her of this. The boys, meanwhile, stand a bit away in a group, playing a game of hacky sack and (you suspect) discussing the girls.

“But I don’t just mean does he like me,” Angelina slurs, rocking her head against your shoulder. “I mean, does he _like_ me? As much as I like him. You know what I mean?”

“I do know,” you assure her, finding this a perfect (though slightly hilarious) way to describe your feelings for Severus. 

“I don’t want to like him too much,” Angelina says, her full lower lip extending in a pout. You understand this sentiment as well.

“He’s mad for you,” Alicia reassures her, glancing to where the boys have apparently stopped their game and are discussing something avidly. “I don’t think you need to worry about—”

BANG.

You jump, spinning around to the source of the noise, and find with horror that it’s the boys. Kenneth Towler is flat on his back on the ground, and George stands swaying above him, pointing his wand. Fred has his wand drawn too, though it’s not pointed as aggressively at the boy on the ground.

You rise carefully from your seat, watching. The group has gone deadly quiet, so it’s easy for George’s voice to carry to you over the crackling of the campfire.

“Go on, Towler,” he says. “Say that again.”

Kenneth raises his hands defensively in front of his face. “Ain’t fair,” he says pitifully. “I can’t do magic out of school yet...”

George’s face does not soften, and his voice is low and dangerous as you come up behind him, thinking you can help de-escalate things. “Say that again,” he repeats. “I dare you.”

His tone scares even you, so you don’t really blame Kenneth for backing down. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, mate, I—you’re right, I shouldn’t have—that was bang out of order.” 

“Too right,” Fred says, glowering as he lowers his wand. George, however, keeps his aim steadfast, even as Lee puts a calming hand on his shoulder. You've never seen him this angry. You don’t like it.

“George,” you say gently, “what happened?” 

Instantly, George turns to look at you, lowering his wand. He starts toward you, casting a final, disgusted glance at Kenneth before moving to your side and sliding a firm arm around your shoulders.

“Come on,” he tells you, pulling you along. You glance at Angelina, confused, but she merely shakes her head, clearly as baffled as you.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“Back to the castle,” George replies, and his expression tells you he’s serious. You let yourself be swept along—it’s late anyway, and if the party has devolved into dueling, maybe it’s better you get out of here.

“Wait, mate,” Kenneth calls after you, scrambling off the ground. “Wait, you don’t have to—I’ll go.”

You glance at George, whose expression merely hardens. He ignores his friend, pulling you into the concealed tunnel. The boulder slides back into place behind you, and you can just hear Kenneth shouting, “I’m sorry!”


	39. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing today, as promised, my babies! A big reason for my absence was that I was doing a ton of outlining. I know what I need to happen in the next few chapters and...let me just say...buckle the fuck up.
> 
> Having said that, I actually don’t know wtf the end of THIS chapter is doing, but I wrote it! You’re welcome in advance, JennoSama. (And thanks for getting my imagination going.)
> 
> The song for this chapter is very really sexy. And so are you!

* * *

_There's a lover in the story,  
_ _But the story's still the same.  
_ _There's a lullaby for suffering,  
_ _And a paradox to blame.  
_ _But it's written in the scriptures,  
_ _And it's not some idol claim.  
_ _You want it darker?  
_ _We kill the flame._

"You Want It Darker" - Leonard Cohen

* * *

George is walking down the tunnel fast, tugging you along with his arm around your shoulders. “George...” He ignores you, mouth tight, clearly fuming. Your boot slides over a rock, and you stumble, but he just keeps dragging you on. You’re fed up. “George!” you snap, locking your legs and stopping in your tracks. You catch onto the back of his jacket and pull him to a stop too.

He turns toward you, glowering. “What?”

You widen your eyes, gesturing vaguely around at the dark tunnel. “What do you mean _what?”_ you say. “What the hell happened back there?”

George turns away from you, folding his arms and starting to walk again. You hurry to catch up. You’ve never seen the guy brood before, but he’s surprisingly good at it.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.

You laugh derisively. “You dragged me away!”

He stops, turning to you and running a frustrated hand through his shaggy hair. “It’ll upset you.”

“Try me,” you challenge, reaching out to grab his warm hand. It gives him pause, and he looks down at it as though trying very hard to concentrate. You’re suddenly reminded how drunk he is.

“Towler was running his mouth,” George said, trying to shrug nonchalantly and failing to be convincing. “Said some stuff...I defended you. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Towler said something about _me?”_ you ask, a bit shocked. You barely know the guy. George shrugs, and you almost feel like laughing. Like you give a shit what Kenneth Towler thinks of you. “What’d he say?”

In lieu of a response, George tugs you along by the hand. “It’s bloody freezing. Let’s get back.”

“I wanna know!” you insist, almost giggling as you catch up. The _drama._

George is obviously taking it much more seriously. He glances at you, seeming confused, then shakes his head. “It was nothing.”

“It was enough for you to try to hex him,” you say, linking your arm through his and leaning against his side, letting your warm breasts brush up against him. You know it’s manipulative, but you’re curious.

And it works. George lightens up at your affectionate touch and finally shrugs. “He said something about your clothes.” The memory brings a sneer back to his lips—you’re not used to him wearing one, and it doesn’t suit him. “Said you looked like you were...asking for it.”

You can’t help but laugh. “What an asshole!” George turns to look at you again, a crease between his brows, and you shrug. “But it’s not like I’m gonna let it upset me.”

 _“I_ was upset,” George replies quietly. You laugh again, squeezing his arm.

“You’re so sweet,” you say. “Some guys are just sexist pieces of shit, though. I promise, I’ve heard much worse.”

George looks down at you again, seeming a bit concerned. “Fucking hell,” he says. “Call me next time someone says something like that, will you?”

“Will do,” you agree, smiling. Then you laugh. “Sir George, defender of maidens.” You think a second, and shrug. “Even when their skirts are short.”

That finally gets him to ease up. He goes off for a while about how much he dislikes Towler anyway, and how this was just a matter of time, really, but by the time you get back to the statue of Gregory the Smarmy, the two of you are laughing and chattering like normal. The walk has sobered George up considerably, and you’re having quite a lot of fun, despite the drama. 

It’s hard to remember to keep your voices down as you move into the castle corridors. George asks if you want to walk to the Gryffindor dorm with him, and you readily agree. It feels like neither of you are ready to part ways quite yet.

You climb slowly through the castle, reaching an abandoned third floor corridor. George knows all the best routes, how to avoid paintings and patrols, and you’re strolling along so casually, you’d almost forget it’s nearly 4AM...if not for the darkness surrounding you.

“You have fun tonight?” George asks, turning to grin at you. “Besides that end bit.” He’s got his hands in his pockets, and there’s something sheepish about his smile.

“It was great,” you reply genuinely. “How about you? Good birthday, all things considered?”

“One of the best in recent memory,” he says, his smile widening. “At least I’m drunk enough that Towler didn’t ruin it.”

“Good,” you reply, laughing. “Wine makes everything better.”

“It wasn’t just the wine.” George is looking at you slyly, and you already know where he’s going with this, and you wish he wouldn’t. But you can’t think of a way to divert him before he speaks again: “You were there, after all.” He shrugs. “And now you’re here. Just us.”

Your heart sinks, and all words leave. You content yourself with chewing on your cheeks and nodding vaguely, looking anywhere but at him. You’re hoping desperately that he’ll move on and start talking about something else.

Unfortunately, though, George seems to feel this is a perfect segue. He gently touches your arm to get you to stop in your tracks, and he turns toward you earnestly. Great. You _love_ having serious conversations with wasted people while you’re practically sober. _Especially_ when they’re about their unrequited romantic attraction to you.

George, even drunk as he is, notices the reluctance on your face. “I know we’ve already talked about this,” he says, lowering his voice intimately. “But sometimes I wonder if you’re changing your mind about me. About...us.”

You sigh, a little impatient. “What makes you think that?” 

George shrugs, spreading his arms. “You don’t treat me like your other mates,” he says. 

“I’m closer to you,” you reply honestly.

“You hold on to me, hold my hand...”

“That’s just how I show my affection, I guess.” You sigh. “I can stop, if it bothers you.”

“Do you _really_ not feel this?” George asks intently, gesturing between you. He grimaces a little, closing the space between your bodies. “Because I can’t miss it. Other people mention it too. Towler wouldn’t come off it tonight. That was right before he...” He trails off, an edge of bitterness creeping into his tone, and you finally understand the context that would make him snap over a comment about how short your dress is. “It’s just...” he continues. “It’s getting a bit exhausting, if I’m honest.”

“George...” you say. You’re exhausted too. “Just let it go.”

“I can’t,” he says firmly. And he steps closer, looking down at you in a way that means business.

* * *

Snape has patrol tonight. Usually, he would find it annoying, but he’s been restless lately. More than restless. About to squirm out of his bloody skin.

He honestly didn’t think anything could be more maddening than your seduction act, but he has to admit this takes the cake. The past two weeks have been hell. The thing is, even when you’re not blatantly trying to tempt him, you’re still devastatingly lovely. And he still can’t touch you.

And now he doesn’t even have the pleasure of your mere company to take the edge off. Having conversations with you, laughing and teasing and flirting, were at first something of a salve for not being able to be physically intimate all the time. Recently, however, he’s realized that he can’t decide which he likes more. You are clever and sharp and funny, and he never tires of that mind of yours. But now he’s deprived of it. 

You told him this is not a punishment. But damn him if it doesn’t feel like one.

It’s painful. Yearning usually is. What shocks him—even worries him—is that he misses your mind more than he misses your body. He could give up the sex (albeit reluctantly) if you still allowed the conversations.

He wishes you would. He would host you in his office for hours if he could. But you maintain that it is too difficult, too _tempting._ The idea makes Snape scoff. 

He’s trying to believe you, but he doesn’t. He tries to hold it off, but still he suspects that you are distancing yourself from him for other reasons. Perhaps, without the sexual chemistry, you’ve grown bored of him. He is, after all, too grim, too sardonic and _much_ too old for you. Not to mention his hideous past which, despite your reassurances otherwise, he can’t imagine you’ve truly forgiven or forgotten. 

He considers you very close to him, but perhaps it does not go both ways. Perhaps you find it easier to tolerate his company when he is bending you mindlessly over his desk, dominating you. When you can put him into a role and play games. But if that’s the case, why even foster a relationship with him? Because you know he would not be interested in something purely physical?

Snape curses under his breath, striding around a dark corner on the castle’s third floor. He’s barely kept track of where he is going, mind abuzz with these cyclical, repugnant thoughts. 

He knows you. He knows you are better than that, more trustworthy. He even knows, on some level, that you genuinely care for him (though he does not quite understand why). He is trying not to worry. 

But he worries nonetheless.

Snape slows his tracks when he hears the low hum of voices ahead in the dark corridor. Just around the next corner. No one else should be awake—this must be students breaking curfew. It is a Friday night, after all.

He’s about to raise his wand and sweep around the corner when one voice travels to him, velvety and horribly familiar. 

“George...Just let it go.”

 _You._ Damnable thing. Apparently sneaking around the castle at 4AM with none other than George Fucking Weasley. Snape’s hand tightens around his wand, but he remains concealed. He’s suddenly boiling with anger. He _knew_ you liked Weasley more than you admitted—now he’s about to discover evidence of it.

And sure enough, the boy’s tone is soft and cloying. You can tell he’s leaning close to you—Snape imagines with a flash of rage that his hand is on your waist. He squeezes his eyes shut as the boy speaks.

“I can’t,” Weasley says. He’s slurring—obviously drunk. “I can’t stop thinking about you, [First name]. It’s driving me mad.”

“We’ve been through this,” you reply firmly. Snape’s eyes fly open. You sound...annoyed.

“I know, but...” Weasley hesitates. “Don’t you get lonely?” Snape hears you sigh. You certainly don’t sound like you’re getting swept off your feet here.

“Of course I get lonely,” you reply, still firm. Snape almost smirks.

The smirk is wiped away when he hears Weasley shift closer to you. “I could remind you...” the boy says softly, and Snape imagines his fingers brushing your hair. “How good it feels...” Snape’s hands curl into fists; he’s gripping his wand so tightly he thinks it could snap.

“George. Stop.” And you push him away. Snape hears the rustle of clothes, hears you distance yourself.

The boy sounds sheepish when he speaks again. “Sorry. You’re right.” A beat, then, “I just like you.”

Your voice is still firm, even berating, when you speak. “I get that.” You’re sick of rejecting his advances, aren’t you? Snape has a feeling you haven’t told him the half of them—probably to avoid his jealousy. Then you sigh and continue, “But I’m not going to jeopardize what I have with...with him.”

“That Seth bloke?” Weasley asks. Of course—your ridiculous name for him, for Snape.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Me and Seth.” Something warm is building in Snape’s chest; he feels his face soften with every word. “We’re...we’re endgame, George. I’m in it for the long run, no matter how hard it is. And even though I can’t touch him right now...I’ll wait. He’s worth waiting for. He’s worth it.”

The words roll over Snape slowly, so that for a moment he barely registers their meaning. He’s frozen in place, eyebrows furrowed, and he forgets to listen to George’s response. It doesn’t matter. The boy doesn’t matter. Not after that.

Is that really how you feel? The words echo through his skull— _endgame, long run, worth it._ You’ve never told him this, never explained as much...Not, he supposes, that he makes it easy for you. He hides himself too.

He wasn’t prepared for this. Your use of the word _endgame,_ and perhaps more than anything, your defense of him to George Weasley...it affects Snape. Profoundly. It makes him want to reach out to you, to grab you and pull you to him and never, _never_ let go. And in the same terrible, wonderful breath, it makes him feel like he’s drowning. Like he’s defenseless, swept away under a torrential flood, and he can’t stop it or even fight it. It feels like something he should hate.

But is it pleasant? Is it supposed to be?

He should be fighting this. He should shove you away, make you despise him. 

He should be holding you close. He should give you everything you want, and he should never let you go.

After a few moments, Snape becomes vaguely aware that you and George are saying goodnight. He hears you hug, so he supposes Weasley took your rejection in stride. And while part of him wants to make life hell on the boy, he still hasn’t quite calmed the mad thoughts in his head. So he remains hidden around the corner as the boy walks off in the opposite direction.

He hears your furtive little sigh once Weasley’s footsteps fade, and he tries to decide what to do. Yes, you’re flagrantly disobeying school rules, but he rather wants to let you go and keep what he heard to himself. He doesn’t like the idea of discussing your deeper feelings with you—it would force him to discuss his own as well. You’re a weakness to him. You make him feel powerless. He can barely admit that to himself, much less _out loud._

But before he can move back into the shadows, or turn and stride in the opposite direction, you come around the corner. You’re moving quickly and quietly, and you’re not looking where you’re going, so before Snape can prevent it or step out of the way, you bump fully into him.

You scramble back, panic and guilt flashing across your face for a moment before you recognize him. You relax immediately, laugh softly and run a hand through your hair. 

“Sev,” you say warmly. “Thank god.”

Snape draws himself upright, folding his arms across his chest as he examines you. Gods, you’re not wearing your uniform, and the way that bloody dress clings to you...You have no idea how you look, he’s sure. No idea what he could do to you. He wants to reward you. He wants to punish you. He can’t decide which one you’ll like more. All he’s really sure of at the moment is that he needs to hide how profoundly you affected him.

So, simply to give himself time to think, he makes his face a disapproving mask, letting his gaze run up and down your lovely body. “[Last name],” he drawls, low and deep, and it gets your attention. You watch him carefully, equal parts anxious and eager. “You’re up late.”

“Yeah,” you say. Your voice is breathless, and Snape has to cut off the desire to laugh. You’re very cute when you want to be. 

He lets the moment drag on, lets you get more nervous, and just as your mouth opens to fill the silence, he reaches forward and grabs the front of your dress. Your words are vacuumed back into a gasp, and you stagger toward him, staring up with wide eyes. Even in the dark hallway, he can see the pink glow of your cheeks. Good. He needs the control back, to remind both of you who has it.

“Detention,” Snape whispers, and he hears the catch of your breath in your throat. You’re closer now than you’ve been for two weeks, and suddenly all kinds of plans are filling his head. “Tomorrow morning at, shall we say, ten?” He releases your dress, and you rock back, still looking stunned and breathless. “Don’t be late,” he orders firmly.

Then, without waiting for a response, he turns and sweeps away down the hall.

* * *

You roll out of bed the next morning, rather annoyed. You’re not hungover, but it’s way too early, especially given that you didn’t fall asleep until past four. Severus, of course, knows this all too well, and you have to assume it’s part of the punishment. 

You grumble as you throw on your uniform and head out of the dorm. What is he _thinking?_ You specifically asked him not to force you into interactions! He could have just taken points and been done with it. Or better yet, let you off scott free. It’s not like anyone else knew he’d caught you.

The good news is that by the time you reach his office and open the door to see his tall, slim, black-robed figure—leaning casually against his desk and surveying the room as if he owns it—you’re still so annoyed with him that you forget to be instantly turned on.

You glare at him as you come into the office, pushing messy hair back from your face. Severus remains impassive, unimpressed with his arms folded across his chest. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Well?” you ask, shrugging your arms somewhat aggressively. One black eyebrow rises, but he’s otherwise unmoved. “I’m here, as requested, _sir.”_ You watch him for a second, then add, “This _early.”_

Severus’ mouth twitches so subtly you’re not quite sure it happened, then he nods slowly. “Indeed you are.” You raise your palms, impatiently communicating _so what do you want, then?_ He regards you thoughtfully for a moment, one finger coming up to trace his lips. “Do you know why I gave you detention, Miss [Last name]?”

You close your eyes, annoyed. He’s really got his teacher face on today, and you’re not in the mood. It’s not like you’ll be able to do anything sexy to make up for the frustration he’s putting you through, and you don’t think that’s fair.

But instead of backing down at your clear irritation, after a silent moment, he decides to egg you on further. 

“Any time this century, if you please.”

Your eyes fly open to glare daggers, but he doesn’t react. He just stands there, stoic, angular and sexy in a way that only makes you angrier. Is he _teasing_ you? Is this revenge for trying to seduce him a few weeks ago? Way to hold onto a grudge. _Real fucking mature._

“You caught me out after curfew,” you reply bitterly. You’re aware your tone is disrespectful, would get points taken by any other teacher. But this _is_ Sev, and for all his play-acting right now, you want him to know he’s irritating you. 

For his part, Severus doesn’t react to the hostility. “Yes,” he muses evenly. “Sneaking around the castle with a clearly inebriated Weasley. Coming back from...where, exactly?”

You feel a jolt, icy spirals down your back. “You knew I was with George?”

The smile spreads across his face now, but at least he doesn’t look angry. “My, my,” he drawls. “Such panic. Were you doing something you shouldn’t be?”

“No,” you reply defiantly, watching him carefully. Because that’s the thing...he’s _not_ angry. Not jealous, either. He actually looks fairly smug. Your eyes narrow, and you place a hand on your hip. “How much did you hear?”

Instead of responding, Severus pushes lazily off the desk and paces toward the sofa in the corner. He sits down, leaning back casually, one arm resting along the back. His knees are spread, and those black eyes won’t leave your face. His expression is grim, pensive.

“Come here,” he orders.

Another electric jolt races through you. Where is he going with this? You march toward him as calmly as you can, though inwardly, you’re panicking. You try to think back on last night. What exactly did you say to George? How much of it was stuff you’re too scared to tell Sev? _You didn’t use the L word, right?_

You reach the sofa and stand hesitantly beside his knees. He lets you sweat for a moment, incisive gaze moving up and down your form before flicking his ebony wand twice toward the door. The lock clicks. He’s fucking _plotting_ something, you can tell, and you’re not sure whether you should be excited or fucking terrified. There’s danger in his eyes.

“What did you hear me say to George?” you ask again, trying desperately to distract him.

He ignores you. Instead, he reaches out and pulls you quickly down, so you’re forced to kneel on the cushion beside his thigh. It’s more physical connection with him than you’ve had in weeks, and you’re almost able to savor the warmth of his large hands as they grip your hips.

His eyes flick over you studiously as he positions you upright on your knees, adjusting your skirt and tie. You brace yourself against his shoulder with one hand, but he only allows you that for a moment before he plucks it away and places it behind your back. He repeats the process with your opposite hand, and you follow his lead, clasping your fingers obediently behind you. You can’t think of anything else to do—in your confusion, your mind is not working properly

“Good,” Severus breathes, seeming satisfied by your compliance. He shifts a little, sitting upright, and that smirk starts to play over his lips again. You have just enough time to wonder, again, what exactly he’s doing, when he orders, “Bend over.”

You don’t quite register the words at first. Your mouth drops open, and you simply ask, “What?”

Severus rolls his eyes. But instead of giving you the explanation you’re desperately looking for, he quickly seizes your tie and uses it to drag you roughly downwards. You fall clumsily over his legs, squealing. Unable to reach around to brace yourself in time, you go face first into the sofa, and your first reaction is to move away. This feels so vulnerable. But he stops you with one large hand on the back of your bare thigh, pressing you firmly down until you’re simply laying across his lap.

You squirm for a moment and finally get your arms under you. You still don’t quite understand what’s happening, but maybe if you can get up on your elbows, you’ll be able to ask a few questions. 

Before you can so much as draw breath, a _smack_ rings out through the office. You gasp loudly, involuntarily, your ass suddenly stinging like crazy. He just fucking _spanked_ you! His hand connected over the skirt, but it was hard enough to let you know he’s serious. The indignity!

You strain to look back at Severus with an expression of pure betrayal. “That hurt!”

Another _smack,_ this time on your opposite cheek, and you yelp aloud. _“Silence,”_ Severus hisses. He reaches over and grabs a handful of your hair, craning your head back so you listen as he bends close. “Rarely have I been forced to use corporal punishment on a student, Miss [Last name],” he says. “But you seem to be a _special,”_ he spanks you again, harder than before. _“Case.”_ Another _smack,_ and you actually yell this time. 

“Don’t!” You try to squirm off him, but he grabs you roughly by the hips and forces you back into place.

“If you really don’t want this,” he replies, voice a bit harsh with the effort of manhandling you, “you know what to say.”

He pauses for a moment, and you know he’s listening for a safeword—there are several you’ve discussed. But despite dreading more pain, you really want to see where this goes.

After giving you ample time to make a decision, Severus brings his hand down on your bottom again. You yelp, squirming, but he stops you with another spank, harder than before. He’s not going gentle, and you learn fairly quickly that moving only makes it worse. Your ass feels hot and tender, and your head is buzzing—you still can’t believe this is happening. What about all the rules? Why is he breaking them?

You finally manage to stay still for more than a few seconds, and Severus notices immediately. “Finished your tantrum?” he asks, and you can do nothing but nod, groaning and burying your head in your arms.

Severus’ large, cool hand settles over your skirt, rubbing gently. It doesn’t give much relief, but you can’t help let out a little moan, pressing your hips up against him. Beneath you, you feel his firm abdomen move with calm, collected breaths, and the hard musculature of his thighs. But you don’t dare try to explore further. Your ass already hurts.

“Now,” he says, his voice like velvet, slightly breathless. You jump as you feel him flip up your uniform skirt, and his fingertips ghost against the silk of your underwear. “Stay quiet.”

You feel his hand move upward, the rush of air almost cooling on your tender skin, but you’re still not prepared for the next _smack_ that rings through the dungeon. You let out a pathetic squeak, trying desperately to obey him. You’re not super into pain, and this _hurts,_ and you’re sure if you make more noise, he’ll just go harder. 

You take five more spanks like that, his hand connecting against your silky underwear. You’re breathing hard, but you manage to keep from making much noise. Severus is silent too. You feel his eyes on you, though, watching intently as he doles out his punishment.

The next slap is harder than the rest, and it surprises you into a gasp, which seems to amuse him. Half-angry, you feel the vibration of his abs against you as he chuckles, and you desperately want to say something, to move away, but you force yourself still and silent. 

You’re rewarded by his large, cool hand, coming down to rub soothing circles over your underwear. It feels unutterably good after all that, and he seems to like it too. He lingers here, spread fingers riding back and forth along the globes of your ass, sweeping down to your thighs and up to your spine. You feel his breath slow and deepen as he explores your soft, reddened skin, squeezing gently, taking palmfuls of flesh and silk. A low rumble of desire echoes through his chest as you moan and arch up into his hand.

Fire spreads through you, as his hand drags over your bottom, only to pause for a moment, fingers hovering in the space between your thighs. He seems to hesitate for a moment, then makes a final decision; you freeze in glorious surprise as his long, slender fingers dip between your legs. They press firmly against your panties, tracing up and down in slow passes, gliding against the silk. The pressure is incredible. It drags a louder moan from you, shooting sparks up your spine.

Above you, you hear Severus breathe out shakily at your reaction, at your warmth against his hand. You wriggle your body a little, feeling a definite bulge beneath you. Maybe you can use this to your advantage...

You rear up, planning to snake a hand under yourself to touch him, but he seems to be anticipating that. His hand leaves your ass and meets the back of your head, pushing you back down.

“But—” you start, but he cuts you off.

_“Quiet.”_

You roll your eyes. “Fine.”

“Fine, _what?”_ he demands, touching you again, rubbing his palm from thigh to spine in long, slow arcs.

You smirk. “Fine, _daddy.”_

His response is instantaneous—a hand slaps against your ass, and you can’t help the cry that escapes, mostly born of surprise.

“Cheeky,” Severus mutters, clearly annoyed. You tense, awaiting another spank, only to gasp again when he suddenly yanks down your panties, sliding them to mid-thigh and leaving you completely exposed to his greedy eyes.

He reacts along with you, air hissing over his teeth at the sight. You wish he would touch you again, preferably where you need it, but instead you feel his hand fly up, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

The _slap_ echoes through the room, bare skin on bare skin, and you let out a strangled cry. Your flesh is hot and smarting, and the clap of his hand feels worse than ever in juxtaposition to the pleasure his fingers were just giving you. But he doesn’t let up. His hand flies up again, then comes down. Then again. Then again. Then again.

Your mouth opens, trying desperately to catch your breath. You can feel your flesh bouncing and jiggling with every spank, and he just goes faster, apparently letting out some measure of hidden aggression toward you. A desire to punish you, watch your skin turn red.

You realize tears are streaming down your cheeks. You can’t figure out if you love this or hate this, but you know it’s humiliating. You feel so powerless beneath him, no opportunities to mouth off or be a brat, because that would only make him spank harder. You can tell this is going to give you some serious endorphins—you can already feel them buzzing through you—but you can’t decide if you’ll ever ask for it again. You’ve never been much of a masochist.

Your breath hitches as his palm strikes a particularly sensitive spot, and you turn to look over your shoulder at him. You’re fully crying, and his dark eyes are focused entirely on his work. He likes this. You can tell.

“It hurts,” you gasp. His eyes flick toward yours, but he merely spanks you again. “Ow! Ow, stop!”

He doesn’t stop. You didn’t expect him to. You could easily use a safeword, but you love this as much as you hate it.

“Stop?” Severus asks, his hand rising and falling. _“Stop?”_

 _“Ah!”_ you cry, gritting your teeth.

He leans down toward you. “Are you one who gives orders here, you little brat?” he asks, voice harsh. Another spank. “Are you the one in control?”

“No,” you say immediately.

“Let’s try this again,” he mutters. “No, _what?”_

“No, sir.” It’s barely more than a whisper.

“I didn’t hear you.” Another spank, harder than before.

 _“No, sir!”_ you yell, bracing, squeezing your eyes shut, not wanting more...

He shocks you by going completely still, as though he watched you reach your limit. He probably did—you feel more of a mess than you can remember, hair everywhere, eyes streaming tears. Your entire lower half feels like it’s on fire.

Severus’ cool hand moves tenderly over the swell of your ass, spread-fingered and lush as he explores every inch of skin. You’re shaking a little, you realize. That was intense. The whisper of his fingertips, so cool compared to your scorched skin, sends shivers along your spine.

Then those long fingers slip between your thighs again to touch you. But it’s so much _better_ this time, because your skin is bare and sensitive and needy. You moan aloud, hips twitching, as he strokes you up and down. It’s gentle, but it’s such a reward.

“Such a good girl,” he intones, low and breathy, fingers increasing pressure. Your mind is suddenly racing. In the strange haze of lust and punishment, you almost forgot to be surprised that he’s doing this. What about the rules?

But you don’t bring that up, especially as his middle finger dips inside of you—slowly, so slowly it’s almost torturous. You moan loudly, arching up against him, encouraging him to go deeper. You hear him exhale, bringing his finger back before pushing it in again. You wiggle, feeling the way your skirt is bunched up under you, wanting your shirt off. He pumps once more, palm braced against your ass. You’re still laying fully over his lap, and you want to reposition.

Then Severus’ hands withdraw from you, leaving you empty. You sigh in relief, sure he’s going to pull you up to straddle him, take advantage of the state he’s gotten you into.

But he shocks you by grabbing your panties and yanking them back up your thighs.

“Get up,” he says—it’s soft, but it’s an order. You turn swiftly to look at him.

“What?”

“Get. Up,” he repeats, dangerous this time.

You scramble off his lap, rising to full height, watching him for any further moves. That can’t be it...right?

To your relief, he rises shortly after you, standing close. He towers over you, looking bigger than ever after that, and you can’t help but see how absolutely massive his hands are. Your ass stings badly, and you can tell you’ll be sore tomorrow, but you can deal with the pain if he just runs those hands over your body again.

He watches you for a long moment, serious and stoic, and you start to smile a little with anticipation. What is he planning? Surely a way to make that up to you, right?

You lean toward him, rising to your tiptoes to bring your mouths close...but he stops you with a hand to your chest. He gives you a chastising look as he pushes you away, and you lower yourself again, frowning.

“That will be all,” Severus says. And he turns and walks to his desk.

You watch him go, aware that your mouth is hanging open. “What?” you ask. How many times have you said that this morning? He’s fucking with you. He has to be. It is April Fools Day, after all.

Severus raises an eyebrow at you as he lowers himself into his chair. “That will be all,” he repeats.

You stare at him for a moment, appalled. “But—”

“[Last name],” he barks, cutting you off harshly. _“Out.”_

You can tell from his tone that he’s serious, and honestly you don’t have any more words at the moment. This whole experience feels like a dream—though whether good or bad, you honestly can’t say. You wouldn’t be surprised if you suddenly woke up.

So, unable to do much else, you send Severus the most vicious glare you can muster. You’re horrified to watch him smirk back, but you’re honestly too exhausted to comment on it. So simply turning and—trying to gather your dignity after... _that—_ you march out of his office, your ass stinging with every step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless smut, I know, but enjoy it while it lasts. We’re getting angsty after this.


	40. The Third Task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is absolutely massive, but I’ve been planning it for ages. You’ll see why. We’re reaching the end of Goblet of Fire.
> 
> Without giving anything away, prepare for angst. I love you so much.

* * *

_There is a swelling storm,  
_ _And I'm caught up in the middle of it all,  
_ _And it takes control  
_ _Of the person that I thought I was,  
_ _The boy I used to know.  
_ _But there is a light  
_ _In the dark, and I feel its warmth  
_ _In my hands and my heart.  
_ _Why can't I hold on?_

“Waves” - Dean Lewis

* * *

You think about that “detention” constantly for the next 48 hours. You can’t exactly help it—your backside is red and sore, and every time you sit down you remember Severus’ hand smacking against you. You also remember the way he kicked you out, the smirk playing around his lips.

And you come to realize...he _planned_ that. For whatever reason, he planned the whole thing exactly as it went down. Spanking, teasing...and sending you on your way. 

That _bastard._

Why? Is he punishing you for trying to seduce him? But that was two weeks ago—you’d apologized! You thought you’d talked it out!

As it is, all Severus’ little “detention” does is reignite your fire for him. It reminds you with brutal clarity exactly how dominant he is, exactly how much strength he possesses in those hands. And even though the pain wasn’t your favorite aspect of it, it’s a price you’re willing to pay for his hands on you again.

Besides, the bottom line is that _he can’t do that to you._ He can’t get mad when you try to tempt him, then bend you over his knee and spank you for everything you’re worth.

You give it until Monday afternoon, but he’s acting completely normal. Pays no attention to you in the Great Hall, barely glances at you in class. You keep your glare on regardless. You’re mad at him, and you’re excited, and you’re confused.

Is the dry spell about to end? Or is he just fucking with you? Either option honestly seems just as likely as the other.

You enter his office for Felix maintenance, fully expecting him to be off avoiding you somewhere. But to your pleasant surprise, you find him seated behind his desk. You pause for an instant once you come in the door, then point at him and say, “I’ll deal with _you_ in a second.” 

He looks surprised and vaguely amused, but he doesn’t reply as you march into the lab to perform the maintenance steps. Your little golden baby is bubbling more and more, rapidly reaching the end of its incubation—only two weeks left before it’s complete.

You jot down a note about its (perfect) condition and turn back around to Severus. He’s watching you, chin tilted down toward his chest, a little intense. You wonder if he would let you get out the door if you tried.

Part of you wants to simply leave. Clearly, something about this lack of interaction has affected him. Maybe you should punish him back. Just walk out that door and keep ignoring him.

But you can’t. Because someone has to break this cycle of punishment and repression, and he’s too good at it.

So you march up to his desk, determined to tell him off. 

“So,” you say, planting a hand on your hip, “what the hell was Saturday all about?”

“Am I in trouble, Miss [Last name]?” Severus replies dryly. He leans back further in his chair, showing you how utterly at ease he is. “How terrifying.”

“I’m _serious,”_ you snap, annoyed by how flippant he’s being. Somewhat to your pleasure, the smirk slides away from his mouth. “You can’t just do that. It’s not fair.”

“Not fair,” he replies quietly. “Then am I to understand you didn’t...enjoy yourself?

“No, that—” you cut yourself off, shake your head and lean over the desk toward him. “That’s not the point!” _Asshole. Trying to distract me._ “You got me all worked up when we’re supposed to be...you know, _abstinent!_ Then you just kicked me out!”

Severus smirks, and you want to throttle him. “What are you really angry about, [First name]?” he asks lazily. “That I touched you, or that I stopped?”

“You’re _infuriating,”_ you hiss.

It wipes the smirk off his face again. Suddenly, he doesn’t look very happy either.

“As. Are. You,” Severus replies, bracing his hands on the desk and slowly rising to his feet. He leans toward you, eyes intense. “After how you’ve behaved, you think _I’m_ out of line?” 

“How _I’ve_ behaved—” you start, but Severus cuts you off.

“First,” he says, “you do everything in your fairly considerable power to make my life hell with your...seductions.” You roll your eyes—you talked through that!—but he ignores you. To your surprise, he reaches up and begins to undo the buttons of his jacket, slowly and casually, while he continues. “Then you spend the next two weeks barely speaking to me. And just when I feel I might go mad, I catch you sneaking around the castle with _Weasley.”_

He sneers, shrugging the heavy black coat off his shoulders, and you shut your mouth. He’s now wearing only his black dress shirt and vest, and he slowly begins to push back his sleeves to the elbows. The movements are casual but purposeful, and you vaguely wonder what he’s planning, but mostly you’re concentrating on his words. A sharp sting of guilt hits you.

“I did what I could to release even an _ounce_ of tension,” Severus continues, flexing his hands once he’s finished rolling his sleeves back. “And you enjoyed every second of it.”

“Enjoyed!” you snap back. “You think my cries of pain were _enjoyment?”_

Severus’ hand shoots out, snatching the knot of your school tie in one firm fist. He’s suddenly intense, serious, even _dangerous._ You can’t look away—that pale skin between curtains of hair so black it flashes hints of blue in the candlelight. The jagged peaks of his cheekbones and the sharp cut of his jaw. And more than anything, his beautiful, dark eyes, black as bottomless pools and just as deep.

“I do,” he replies. And suddenly he drags you toward him so hard you’re forced onto the desk. One of your knees comes up reflexively to kneel on the ledge, but he doesn’t stop pulling you closer. You have no choice but to climb fully onto the surface, scattering candles and papers, toppling inkpots. 

Your heart is pounding as you kneel on the desk in front of him, a bit above his eye level. He watches you for a long moment before finally saying, “Admit it.”

What the hell is happening here? What are you fighting about? Is this even a fight, or is it another game? Another excuse to punish you?

So you decide to give him one. 

“In your dreams,” you reply.

Looking back, it actually seems to be the right response. Severus moves instantly, laying his hands on each of your thighs and tugging you forward. He manhandles you, pulls you against him and toward the opposite edge of the desk. Panicked, you wrap your arms around his neck as he adjusts his grip, hooks his hands under either knee and fully lifts you up off the desk.

“Don’t drop me!” you squeal, mind blank as his body comes against yours. You scramble to cling to his neck, clearly feeling the empty air between you and the floor. Severus merely chuckles in response, something malicious in the sound, and spins you both around to slam you back against the wall.

You gasp as the breath leaves your body, but at least being braced here feels a little more secure. You can’t believe how strong Severus is, and looking down, you see the strain in his incredible forearms (you rarely see them bare)—pale skin with blue veins and bulging tendons snaking across, the left baring that wicked black tattoo.

“Is this better?” Severus hisses, stealing your attention back to his face. His teeth are bared as he shifts, adjusting his hold on you, shoving his hips against you. “Is _this_ what you had in mind on Saturday?”

 _“I_ didn’t have _anything_ in mind,” you shoot back, trying desperately to regain composure. 

But suddenly his mouth is on yours, open and demanding, and any further comebacks are eviscerated in the press of his lips and tongue. He kisses you like he’s been starving, a sentiment you understand all too well, and you manage to wrap your legs around his hips and secure your hold on him.

It feels so good to be pushed up against him like this again, the firm warmth of his shoulders and abdomen stoking fiery coals in your belly. You feel him move his hips against you, something desperate in the push, and even as he kisses you, he moves fast. One hand hooks under you to keep you steady against the wall while the other works quickly at his belt. 

You clutch his shoulders, moaning when you feel him uncover himself, feel the hot velvet press of him between your thighs for the first time in what feels like eternity. You twitch as he pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, grinding against your core in long, slow thrusts.

“Sev,” you gasp, fingers gripping desperately at his broad shoulders, balling the fabric of his shirt in your fists.

“Shhh,” he whispers. “Let me feel you.” Seconds later,his mouth crashes into yours again, a tangle of tongues and teeth. At the same time, his hand moves to massage you over your underwear, forcing a cry from your throat.

“We’re not supposed to do this,” you say shakily, breaking away. You don’t even know why you said it, but Severus just rolls his eyes and hooks your panties aside with two long fingers.

“When has that ever stopped us?” he asks, breathing heavily as he lines himself up against you.

The question is rhetorical, but he doesn’t even give you a chance to respond. He rams into you, hard enough that your shirt is shifted up and you feel the stone wall scrape along your back. You moan in unison as Severus’ heavy torso presses against yours, his mouth directly next to your ear. You hear every gasp and groan from him as he moves, fast and rough, desperate, and your nails find his long black hair, clawing into it. You can’t believe how he fills you, how good he feels. 

You wonder if Sev planned this too. Planned to make you so frustrated and desperate, you confronted him about it, so he would have an excuse (in his own mind) to give in. Kind of convoluted and backwards, you think—he could have simply given in weeks ago. But if this makes him feel better...

You decide none of it matters, certainly not now as he ruts into you, kisses your neck. You feel his hands grow slick in the sweat beneath your knees, but he doesn’t relinquish his grip, driving you back into the wall while simultaneously bouncing you up and down. 

You cry out senselessly, every muscle in your body tensed, focused only on his heat and the way he fills you. Severus groans in response with his face buried against your neck. You feel his thrusts get wilder, less controlled as he reaches the edge of his strength and endurance and barrels right through it. You’re starting to shake, to cling for dear life and make small noises of desperation in his ear.

You suppose a month isn’t _that_ long of a dry stretch, but it felt longer. It felt like years. And you haven’t been this stimulated since the last time he touched you. The pleasure builds and builds, forced through you with every stroke of him, every huff of his breath, every shift of his hips.

It doesn’t take much longer before you’re tightening around him, and waves of pleasure are rolling over you. He rides you through it, watching your face in the throes of your ecstasy.

Then one of his hands is in your hair, and you’re being pulled off the wall and thrown back onto his desk, even as he stays inside of you. Severus leans over you, one hand wrapped dominantly around your throat as his pace grows rapid and uncontrolled. A few more thrusts are all it takes before he shudders to a halt, fingers squeezing, head thrown back in ecstasy.

He falls against you, panting, and you try to catch your breath as you stroke your fingers along the back of his neck. Severus is so warm, and he gathers you close, hand leaving your neck to trail down your body. You both have all your clothes on, which you don’t think has happened for a long time.

He turns his face toward yours, brushing your cheek and temple with his nose before laying a gentle kiss on it. 

“In case you were thinking of going anywhere,” he croons in that deep baritone, “you’re not.”

So you don’t. You spend the rest of the afternoon in his office, making up for lost time.

It feels incredible to be with him again. He gains his stamina back fairly quickly, once more rough and energetic—he throws you around his office like you weigh 10 pounds and bends you over every conceivable surface, plays with you until you go numb then forces you to your knees. He degrades you and praises you at all the right times, smacks your ass for being bad and kisses it for being good. He pleasures you with his wand and ties you up and makes you scream.

You’re not sure how many hours pass, but by the time you’re both spent and exhausted, the sky is dark beyond the high dungeon windows.

You lay on the couch, head on his lap, every ounce of tension drained from you. Severus leans back, shirtless and sweaty, arms draped over the back as he stares up at the ceiling. Your head is empty. Absolutely not a single, solitary thought.

“How,” Severus says slowly to the ceiling, “did we manage to go a month?”

You laugh, reaching up to trace his taught neck, fingers running over his prominent Adam’s apple. “No idea,” you say. “I just know it sucked.”

He glances down, taking your hand and leading it to his mouth, laying gently kisses along the tips of your fingers. “Torturous,” he agrees. “Even unsustainable.” He smirks down at you. “We can scarcely be blamed for giving in.”

And with that, your dry-spell is broken. The two of you go back to the way it was. It was inevitable, and perhaps you both knew it from the beginning. Your chemistry is too intense.

Over the next few weeks, things slide back to normal. The way they were before Harper caught you—easy and intimate and sexy and wonderful. At first, in the days following your spectacular reunion, you and Severus continue the effort to keep your distance during the day. You leave directly after Felix maintenance, you don’t linger after Club. It’s easier now though, because you often come back at night, after everyone is asleep, to release your tension with him.

But it only takes a few days for old habits to rear their heads. You like each other too much, you think. You can’t help but want to stay in his office to talk, drinking in every second of his company like a woman dying of thirst. And soon you’re hanging around long after class, spending entire afternoons with him. And neither of you mention it. Because until another problem arises, you don’t want to worry. And you won’t, because you’ll deal with whatever comes along. Together.

The Easter holidays arrive, bringing with them a much-needed reprieve from the demand of school work. Classes are getting more intense with every day that brings you closer to the N.E.W.T.s, and you breathe a deep sigh of relief when school is finally over for a week.

Mid-April, the Felix Felicis is finished. The celebration is a quiet one, though you’re excited to show your classmates. Even Severus admits it’s a nearly perfect brew—shining thick and bright as molten gold with a perpetually bubbling surface, drops leaping high like jumping minnows. He bottles it to keep it safe, but he does allow you to steal a bit of it for yourself. (You had to beg for that, and there might have been a lap dance or two thrown in, but you think he was going to give it to you from the start.)

All in all, the Easter holidays are perfect. They go off without a hitch—no awkward questions, no probing looks. George doesn’t mention your conversation on his birthday again, and he’s even eased back on the flirting a bit, which you think is promising. 

Not that you spend much time with him. Most of your days are spent alone with Severus, never bothered by interlopers. It almost feels like a honeymoon. A dream you never want to wake from. And of course, by the end of it, you’ve fallen even more deeply in love.

The night before your final term at Hogwarts begins, you beg Sev to let you sleep in his bedroom and, somewhat to your surprise, he allows it. He’s been busy with lesson plans all day, so by the time he climbs into bed, you’re eager for his attention. And he is frankly eager to get his overworked mind off school. Needless to say, by the end of the hour, you are both thoroughly relaxed.

You curl up in bed next to him, each with your own novel, quietly turning pages in the soft glow of the candles scattered around the room. Your eyes start to droop almost immediately, which isn’t all that shocking. Severus’ bed usually seems to have that effect on you, and he almost always outlasts you in the struggle to stay awake. Sighing, you drop your book and nuzzle against his warm side, glancing up to his face. It remains serious, mouth pulled down as he concentrates on the novel, but he casually drapes an arm around you.

It’s moments like this, you think as you close your eyes again. Perfect contentment, perfect companionship. Sharing comfortable silences and silent affections. Moments that remind you how close you are to him. He’s your person. Your best friend and only lover. And even though his mind can be a mystery sometimes, you think you know him. And you know you love him.

Filled with warm, heady affection—happier now than you ever were before coming to Hogwarts—you drift off to sleep.

You’re awoken a few hours later by a soft noise. You recognize it instantly, however; this is not the first, or even the second time this has happened. 

It’s Severus, of course. You’re used to his nightmares by now—he has them more often than you think he believes, though usually they’re short and he stays asleep throughout.

Still, he often wakes you when you’re sleeping in his bed. Severus is a restless sleeper, moving and mumbling and even trembling, but all it usually takes is a soft word and gentle touch to smooth the crease between his brows. And then his breathing will deepen, and he’ll cling to you, wrapping his arms around you as if you’re all he has.

In the morning, he never remembers that you are not the one who insists on physical contact when you’re sleeping. He often teases you for it, how you like to cuddle and cling to him, how he’ll wake up with you halfway on top of him. You simply smile and keep your mouth shut. You wouldn’t be on top of him if he didn’t drag you there.

It’s just another one of those things you love about Severus and let him completely get away with, because it would only embarrass him. You wouldn't want it to change anyway.

Tonight, the dream seems a bit worse than usual. He’s curled in on himself, tension in every inch of his slender form, and you watch his fingers twitch and grab at the pillows. You smile sadly, brushing a strand of black hair away from his face as you scoot closer to him. His grasping fingers find the fabric of your night shirt and grip tight.

“It’s okay, Sev,” you whisper, pressing your body close to his. This usually works, makes him relax and soften.

But not tonight. No, instead he lets out a soft groan in response, burying his face in the pillow. You watch him, concerned. You don’t like waking him during nightmares—he always takes forever to fall asleep again, and he needs his rest. But nor can you stand watching the pain streak across his face.

Because it’s not fear that’s etched into his features now. It’s not anger or sadness or contempt. It rarely is. It’s pain. His nightmares _hurt_ him, and you can’t stand that.

You kiss his forehead gently and squirm against him, thinking somewhere in his deep subconscious, he’ll recognize your presence and relax. But it doesn’t work. Severus lets out a low groan, turning his head away from you.

“Sev?” you ask gently, kissing his cheek. He whimpers again, his body twitching against you. “Sev, it’s okay.”

He suddenly lets out a raw cry of agony, bundling his arms to his stomach as if pain is coursing through his body. It startles you badly, and you forget anything about letting him get rest.

“Sev!” you say loudly, shaking him. “Sev, babe, are you okay?” You’ve never called him “babe” before, but it just kind of pops out. You sort of hope he’s too asleep to hear it.

But he stirs at your outburst, his eyes popping open with a gasp. Looking down, you notice his right hand is clasped rigidly around his left wrist, so tight he could bruise himself.

You gently try to pry his fingers away from his arm as he catches his breath, looking around with confusion. You smile, but you feel how strained it is as his eyes meet yours. “Nightmare,” you say gently in explanation.

Severus sighs, finally relaxing his grip around his left forearm and letting you curl your fingers around his hands. He takes a few deep breaths, pulling you close to his warm body and tucking your head under his chin.

“Believe me,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep, “I know.”

“Same old?” you ask lightly. He always feels better when he tells you about his dreams, even though he doesn’t admit it.

Severus doesn’t reply for a long moment. You can feel his jaw working, clenched and reflective. Then, finally, he manages, “No,” through gritted teeth.

He shifts back and sits up to lean against the headboard. You tsk as you follow, unwilling to let him get away with reticence. He’s still so hesitant, so embarrassed by his own dreams. You lean your head on his shoulder, making it clear you’re not going anywhere. “Go on,” you prod after a moment.

Severus sighs heavily through his nose, and you almost think he’ll keep mum. But after a long silence, he decides to open up. 

“I dreamt my Mark burned,” he intones lowly, almost lazily, as though it means nothing. “And the Dark Lord...” He lapses into silence, apparently unable to finish the awful thought.

“Don’t read into it,” you say soothingly, bundling closer to him. “It’s just stress. Classes starting again tomorrow...”

Severus glances down at you, eyebrows furrowed, and positions his left forearm on his lap. Slowly, he pulls back his sleeve to show you that horrible tattoo. “It’s getting darker, [First name],” Severus replies softly, and you can hear the true concern in his tone. “Every day.”

“I know,” you whisper, looking down. Severus rarely goes on about his Mark, but you can tell when it’s bothering him. “We don’t know that it means anything, Sev.”

“Don’t we?” he asks, turning to search your face intently. He shifts, moving toward you and bringing his forearm up under your eyes. “It’s as dark as the day it was made,” he continues softly. “If that doesn’t mean the Dark Lord is gaining power...”

“We don’t know _what_ it means,” you reply, covering his arm with your hand and pushing it back down. “No one’s ever had cursed tattoos like this before. They’re unique to Death Eaters. They could act up in all kinds of ways.” You watch him nod, look away, absorb this. But he doesn’t look comforted. “It doesn’t mean he’s coming back.”

Severus looks at you quickly, and one hand raises to cup your cheek in his cool palm. “But if he does, [First name],” he whispers. “If he does...”

You frown, worried by the expression he’s wearing. His black eyes flick back and forth across your face for a long, silent moment. His lips are pressed together firmly, eyebrows knitted. You turn your face into his cool palm, watching him.

“If he does, what?” you ask.

Instantly, Severus looks away. His hand drops back into his lap. “Nothing,” he replies.

You can see the dishonesty behind his eyes, but some deep, instinctual part of you doesn’t want to know what he was going to say. So you shrug and move on. “Dumbledore said to watch and wait,” you remind him. Severus nods, some of the tension draining from his shoulders, and he bundles you against him. “There’s nothing else to do right now.”

“You’re right,” Severus replies.

“I’m sure he’d say it was just a dream,” you add, “but talk to him if you’re worried. He’d want you to.”

“Perhaps I will,” Severus replies, seeming comforted by this. He tightens his arms around you and leans down to kiss the top of your head, lips lingering against your hair. “How is it,” he says, “you always know just what to say?”

“I know you,” you reply honestly, turning to kiss him. He relaxes into it, breathing deep, and finally pulls you down to lay next to him, your back to his chest. His arms remain around you as he buries his nose in your hair. You shut your eyes, warm and content.

After a while, his breathing goes deep and heavy, and it doesn’t take long for you to follow him into sleep.

The start of Spring term drops you headfirst into a whirlwind of stress, studying and chaos. Suddenly, the N.E.W.T.s dominate your mind and the minds of every other person in your year. A level of panic, which was stifled by the Easter holidays, now emerges full force and begins to snowball.

By the end of the first week back, you’ve heard two seventh years have had panic attacks severe enough to land them in the hospital wing, and one Hufflepuff girl fainted dead away during Arithmancy on Tuesday. You’re sure it’s just going to get worse the nearer the exams come.

You’re actually feeling rather alright about them yourself, though you foresee anxiety in your future. For now, though, everything seems under control. You’re keeping your head above water in your classes, and most of the material is familiar. Though you wish your professors would stop assigning so much fucking homework.

As it is, Advanced Potions Club decides to disband until the exams are over. You have one last meeting, in which you present the completed Felix Felicis and congratulate each other. Severus, to your surprise, hands each of you a tiny vial filled with the potion. You smile at him—it’s an extremely generous thought, and you’re pleased with the opportunity to add more Liquid Luck to the supply he’s already let you steal. He then spends the next thirty minutes lecturing the Club on the potion’s dangers and warning you all not to even think about using it on the N.E.W.T.s. Not that any of you are that stupid; everyone knows the anti-cheating enchantments are legendary.

So without Advanced Potions Club and Felix maintenance, your afternoons are left open for studying. And as the weeks pass and the exams get closer, you utilize them copiously...and more and more frantically as the days tick down.

At the beginning of May, a low hedge maze appears on the Quidditch field near the castle. The rumor is that this has to do with the final task at the end of June, and indeed the hedges continue to grow as term continues.

Another interesting thing happens when Severus visits Dumbledore to discuss his Mark. He tells you about it that afternoon, when he returns to his office. As you anticipated, the headmaster merely reminded Severus to lay low and try not to worry, and Severus came from his office feeling slightly better about the whole thing—only slightly, mind you, but better nonetheless.

This mood was quickly ruined when he ran into Harry Potter at the bottom of the spiral staircase. The boy was panicking about something—he said he and Viktor Krum found Barty Crouch, a ministry official, on Hogwarts grounds, apparently out of his mind. Dumbledore followed the boy immediately, leaving Severus to wonder what the hell that had been about.

You discuss it at length, but neither of you get very far. Someone may have laid a curse on Crouch, trying to interfere with the tournament, since he was supposed to be one of the judges. As to who, however, it was anyone’s guess. Karkaroff could easily be the culprit, as could Maxime. Or whoever put Potter’s name in the Goblet.

You have to force it from your mind in the end. You don’t have the time or energy to go chasing mysteries that have nothing to do with you. Severus agrees.

As May moves quickly into June, your world narrows down to class and studying, with harried meal breaks every so often and the occasional full night of sleep. Your social life takes a drastic hit of course—you barely see Fred and George anymore—and you honestly don’t remember the last time you’ve had a conversation with Colin about something other than magical solvents or ancient Greek isopsephy.

Severus is practically the only social life you have time for anymore. He’s taken it upon himself to help you prepare for the exams, which includes a rather packed study schedule. It’s nice, and you’re really not complaining, and he’s a _brilliant_ source of information when you’re feeling stuck or stagnant. But he’s a slave-driver.

Still, you’d rather be studying in his office than in the library. And you even manage to enjoy the hard work when he’s there with you. It’s interspersed with laughter and flirtation, deep discussions and inside jokes. And when you do well enough, or when he feels you’re working _too_ hard, he’ll reward you. Sometimes just a kiss, often much more. It certainly makes the long hours easier. Still, you miss your other friends.

But it’ll be worth it in the end, you tell yourself. When you graduate with flying colors and have every British apothecary clamouring to take you on as an apprentice.

You’ve decided to stay in the U.K. after you graduate. Of course you will. This is where Severus is, after all. There’s no way you’re going back to the states and leaving him behind. This is your home now, because home is where your heart is. Thank god for dual citizenship.

The first couple weeks of June fly by. Every class is spent reviewing for the N.E.W.T.s. Every spare second between is spent studying or quizzing. Sprout and Vector seem frantic, trying to cram every topic they can think of down your collective throats, and even Severus speaks more quickly than usual to fit everything in. You fall into bed at night, head swimming with equations and measurements and definitions, only to dream about getting lost in the corridors of Hogwarts and missing the test, or sitting at a desk only to discover you’ve come naked and without a pencil.

It’s almost a relief when exam week finally arrives. At least now you can just get the damn things out of the way instead of dreading them.

You end up sitting five N.E.W.T.s over the course of the week: Herbology, Arithmancy, Alchemy, Ancient Runes and, of course, Potions. Rather a focused, narrow set, but more than enough to get you considered at any noteworthy apothecary, and you feel you really know those subjects now. Especially Potions. 

You don’t know for sure that studying with Severus makes all the difference, but you think it does. The Potions N.E.W.T. is actually the easiest of the exams for you, which is such a shock that you walk out of the room sure you missed something, sure you must have misunderstood every single question. Because they couldn’t be as simple as they seemed.

But Severus just smiles when you worry about it to him later that afternoon. “You found them simple,” he says, shrugging, “because you are an expert.”

 _“Expert,”_ you scoff. “Hardly.”

Severus regards you firmly. “You’re an extremely talented witch,” he says. You stiffen, surprised. You know he doesn’t find you dull, but he rarely compliments your acumen so forwardly. “I wouldn’t doubt that you could become a Potions Master at this point, if you so desired.” He raises an eyebrow at the shock on your face. “It only takes one test to do so. Consider it.”

And you will consider it, you promise yourself. Testing for and becoming an official Master of Potions would only pad a resume, and if Severus thinks you can...

But first, you have to get through the rest of the N.E.W.T.s.

On June 24th, you exit your final exam into a castle buzzing with giddy energy. You’re feeling exceptionally good, if only due to relief. You feel like running, like emptying your bookbag and scattering every piece of parchment behind you, breaking every quill. It’s surreal and heady and wonderful, and you honestly couldn’t care less at this point how well you did on the tests. Because only one thing really matters:

Your school days are over.

The final task is to be held this evening, and you’re sure the night afterward will be full of wine and dancing and laughter. The Weasley twins have invited you to a huge, multi-house party, and you’ve managed to make Colin and Brenna promise to come along this time. You’re looking forward to it.

But first, you want to see Sev. You don’t have much time before dinner, and you want to spend every second basking in his company. The only bittersweet part of school ending is that soon you’ll have to say goodbye, if only for a week or two.

You haven’t really discussed what your summer plans look like, but Severus seems interested in spending it together. He was pleased when you told him you were planning on staying in the U.K. He didn’t even question the decision or try to talk you out of it, which speaks volumes. He’s also dropped a few hints about places he plans to take you in London and even asked if you’d be amenable to a longer trip with him—he thinks you’d like Edinburgh.

The future is unfolding before you, bright and beautiful. You can’t wait to live it with Sev by your side.

Sev’s not in his office, so you head up to the southern tower to check for him. But he’s not there, either. You shrug, leaning against the balcony and looking across the grounds. He’s probably at a staff meeting or something, preparing for tonight.

The weather is balmy, a pleasant breeze ruffling your hair as you stand and take in one of your final views of Hogwarts. A bit of nostalgia tints the joy you’re feeling. You really will miss this place. Its spirit, its secrets, its mutability. It’s more of a home than you ever felt Salem to be. You wonder if you’ll ever return.

You end up staying there for quite a while. Part of you is hoping Sev will show up—he doesn’t—but mostly you’re just drinking in your last taste of Hogwarts. As the sky begins to darken, you feel a sad little knot form in your gut. Stressful as it was, this year has been completely magical. You’re sad to see it end.

You come down for dinner to find the Great Hall even more packed than usual. Of course, you forgot—the champions’ families are arriving tonight to watch the final task. Straining to see over the crowd, you get a look at the Gryffindor table, where a crowd of redheads are gathered around Harry Potter. Fred and George look content, seated beside a plump woman you can only assume is their mother, and their tall, handsome older brother, Bill. They’ve been talking all week about the task, but you think they’re more excited than they admit to see their family.

Meanwhile, up at the head table, Ludo Bagman sits beside the Minister for Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge. The usual gang is all there too, of course—Dumbledore, Maxime, Karkaroff, then the other faculty. You send Severus a brilliant smile as you approach the Slytherin table, waving to him, and he nods and smiles in return. He looks relaxed, in a fairly good mood. You can’t wait to tell him how the exams went.

But that will have to wait. First, a grand dinner is laid out before you. It has more courses than usual—Hogwarts is showing off for its new guests—and you eat with gusto, sort of a reward for finishing your exams. Your fellow seventh years are feeling similarly jubilant. Colin can’t stop smiling, and even Brenna is more talkative than usual.

To your surprise, about halfway through the meal, Benji slides onto the bench next to you. You have to keep yourself from looking too shocked, though you return the warm hug he throws over your shoulders.

“No Victoire today?” Colin asks him, somewhat cold.

Benji ducks his head, looking down at the table. “Broke it off,” he admits. “She wanted me to come to Paris, but...” He shrugs. “Anyway, it’s over.”

Your heart feels like it’s getting fuller and fuller. You really can’t imagine how today could get anymore perfect, and you throw yourself against Benji, squeezing him tightly around his waist and burying your face in his chest to hide your tears. You find you don’t even need an apology (which is good, as you suspect he has too much pride to give you one.)

“Welcome back,” you whisper.

It’s like nothing ever happened. Benji falls so easily back into conversation with you, Colin and Brenna that you almost forget it’s been months since you’ve properly talked.

As the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling slowly deepens from blue to dusky purple, Dumbledore stands from his seat to address the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “in five minutes’ time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch field for the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr. Bagman down to the stadium now.”

Harry Potter, Cedric Diggory, Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum all rise to thunderous applause and follow the beaming, bouncing Bagman out of the hall. The rest of the crowd is restless as the minutes tick by. You gather your things and glance up at Sev, who raises his eyebrows pleasantly at you.

When Dumbledore finally dismisses you, you walk with your newly complete friend group down to the grounds. You’re buzzing with joy and anticipation, laughing at Colin and Benji’s antics, waving vigorously to the twins a bit further down the path—they’re jumping up and down to gesture to you over the crowd. There’s a light, easy feeling in your chest, and giggling comes so easy.

“Enjoying yourself?” The low voice comes from your right, and you turn eagerly to see Severus strolling down the path just behind you. He smirks at the grin you throw him.

“Professor!” Benji yells. “Happy third task!”

Severus glances at him and nods pleasantly before Benji gets distracted by Colin, who is trying to give him a noogie. The two boys jostle, laughing and giving you space as Severus’ eyes flick back to you. You can’t stop staring at him, bathed in the soft glow of the moon. The lines around his mouth, the intelligence in his gaze. You don’t know how you could be more in love.

“How did the exams go?” Severus asks, gently enough that only you can hear. To your surprise, you feel the long, full sleeve of his cloak against your arm, and his knuckles brush yours. Your heart leaps.

“Great, actually,” you whisper back. Brazenly, you link your pinky finger together with his, and he lets you. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“I look forward to it,” he replies, flexing his hand to squeeze your finger slightly, just once, before quickly releasing you. “My office, then. Afterwards.”

You nod, a bit breathless, and he sends you one last smirk before sweeping away down the path.

The Quidditch pitch is unrecognizable when you finally arrive at it—a twenty-foot high hedge now runs the perimeter, broken only by the entrance tunnel, which fades quickly into darkness in the bowels of the maze. You and your friends find your seats in the Slytherin section of the stands, the air humming with anticipation and energy. Across the way, you notice George standing on the bench and waving vigorously at you, so you return it.

The champions are already waiting at the maze entrance while Hagrid, McGonagall, Moody and Flitwick approach them, each with scarlet stars emblazoned on their hats (or in Hagrid’s case, pinned to his ugly brown coat.) Leaning over to you, Colin explains that they’ll be patrolling the perimeter of the maze—if any champion has trouble and wishes to be rescued, they’re to send red sparks into the air. You glance at Severus, a few rows down, thankful for his sake that he doesn’t have to do this.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified voice soars above the stands, and the crowd goes wild. “The third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! Tied in first place, with eight-five points each—Mr. Cedric Diggory and Mr. Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts School!” The cheering reaches a thunderous peak, sending birds from the nearby trees of the Forbidden Forest into flight. “In second place,” Bagman continues, “with eighty points—Mr. Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute! And in third place—Miss Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons Academy!” He turns toward the Hogwarts champions—Potter looks stark white and nervous, Diggory grinning and anticipatory. “So...on my whistle, Harry and Cedric!” says Bagman. “Three—two—one—”

A short blast of his whistle, and the two boys scurry toward the maze, disappearing inside. A short while later, Krum’s whistle is blown, and soon after, Delacour enters the maze as well.

Much like the second task, each champion is represented to the watching crowd by a small, colored dot on a vast 3-D map, moving down the winding corridors. Various obstacles are represented as well—Blast-Ended Skrewts, Boggarts, enchanted mists, even a fucking _sphinx._

You watch the dots spread out, navigating the maze, meeting obstacles, overcoming them. Sometimes they’ll meet up, pause a moment and split off as the champions find each other and depart. It’s fairly entertaining, but not the most exciting thing in the world.

About twenty minutes in, however, things start to heat up. A shrill scream suddenly pierces the night air, and the crown begins muttering anxiously as red sparks shoot up from near the Fleur Delacour dot. To your surprise, you notice Viktor Krum’s dot quickly moving in the opposite direction—maybe he’s worried he’ll be accused of sending up the sparks and disqualified.

Shortly after, Fleur is carried out of the maze by Hagrid. She’s unconscious, pale and limp, and the sight of her only increases the anxious muttering in the crowd. You, however, merely shrug. She’s fine, and it means Beauxbatons is out of the running, which you’re honestly glad for.

Ten minutes pass, during which Potter encounters some Blast-Ended Skrewts, but not much more of note. Then, something surprising—all three remaining champions converge. They’re near the middle of the maze—the Triwizard Cup can’t be far—and you wonder what exactly is going on.

Because something certainly is. A scuffle or argument, perhaps, because it culminates in a shower of red sparks leaping up over the spot. Then Harry and Cedric, apparently the two remaining champions, split up and hurry toward the center of the maze.

You turn toward Benji and Colin as the rest of the crowd talks and yells around you, curious for their thoughts. But they just shrug, clearly at as much of a loss as you are. Looking down the row, you catch sight of Severus—he’s seated, but he’s leaning toward the maze, every ounce of his focus on the colored dots moving around within. His eyebrows are furrowed, his face intense. Worried.

It worries you in turn. You watch for another five minutes while Potter deals with the sphinx and Diggory battles a giant spider. Then both boys move toward their goal, and the entire crowd holds their breath. You can’t help but lean forward too as you start to realize what’s happening.

The champions will reach the Cup at more or less the same time.

Inches from their goal, the dots pause. Some discussion is happening, you think—or perhaps a duel. And you wonder who will come out on top—the tall, strapping sixth year or the fourth-year underdog. Who will be the true Triwizard champion?

In a moment, the boys seem to decide something. Both dots move toward the Cup simultaneously, and you can imagine them reaching for it, arms outstretched...then something happens.

Both dots completely disappear.

A groan goes up over the crowd as a ripple-effect seems to extend along the maze, markers blipping out of existence one after another—there goes the Sphinx, the Skrewts, the Boggart. The map enchantment is failing. 

You frown. The only thing you can think of that would affect the enchantment like that is another pulse of magic, more powerful than the one cast on the maze. But from what? What happened when one or both boys touched the Triwizard Cup?

The teachers and judges have, of course, noticed something is wrong, and there’s a flurry of activity near the front of the maze. An attempt to recast the enchantment seems to be made, but no one enters the dark, twisting labyrinth. You assume they don’t want to contaminate the champions’ journey, and as Bagman reminds the restless crowd a few minutes later, if the champions were in any distress, they would send up sparks.

You glance at Severus. He’s sitting rigid in his seat, staring hard at the maze with an unfathomable expression—an expression that worries you. His hands are out of sight, arms buried tightly in his cloak. You imagine his knuckles are white. You want to reach out to him, but you restrain yourself. There’s no reason for this anxiety building in your gut. Everything’s okay. 

And so, along with the rest of Hogwarts and its guests, you force yourself to wait. 

And wait. 

And wait.

In the end, it takes another twenty minutes for anything to happen. But when it does, everything happens at once.

Without warning, two figures appear from nothing at the edge of the maze, one clutching the other with something you can read even from here as desperation. They drop fast, slamming face first to the ground, and you catch the weird blue glow of the Triwizard Cup rolling away from them.

“Potter?” someone in the crowd asks. “Is that Potter?”

And after a moment of shocked silence, the crowd erupts into deafening applause. You surge to your feet with the rest of them, but you’re not clapping. Your eyes are on Severus as he springs up, and you can’t describe the look on his face—you’ve never seen him wear it. It’s something like _horror._

And with a jolt, you look down to see that he’s clutching his left forearm fiercely, teeth gritted like mad.

He rushes into the crowd, down the steps of the stands, and you follow as fast as you can, tripping over celebrating students who don’t seem to realize that something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

You’re panting by the time you make it down from the stands. People keep getting in your way, yelling in your ear and patting your back. You’ve lost sight of Severus, and you’re vaguely aware that the rest of the crowd is following behind you—surging down around the figures on the Quidditch pitch, eager to offer their congratulations to the returning champion.

Still, when you get down to the pitch, you’re able to see the scene with horrible clarity. Harry Potter, low to the ground next to the Cup, crouched over in a strangely guarded, feral stance. Dumbledore standing next to him, trying to pull him up, trying to get him to let go of what he’s clinging to.

What he’s clinging to...

You gasp, reeling back when you finally catch sight of Cedric Diggory’s pale, still face, his open and unseeing eyes.

“He’s back.” You hear Harry’s voice, panting and ragged, as he speaks to Dumbledore. “He’s back. Voldemort.”

It feels like the entire world crashes down. Every ounce of joy you were filled with turns suddenly and brutally to terrible, black despair.

No. Not this. Not after this wonderful, beautiful day.

 _This can’t be happening._

At this moment, Cornelius Fudge arrives at Dumbledore’s shoulder. “My god—Diggory!” he whispers. “Dumbledore—he’s dead!”

The crowd begins to surge around you, and Crouch’s announcement is carried over it as if on the wind. _Diggory? What happened? It’s Diggory! He’s dead!_

You can’t catch your breath, searching desperately for Severus but not seeing him. You back away as Dumbledore attempts to lift Harry off of Cedric’s body, head swimming. Nothing feels real. It’s like a nightmare, a horrible nightmare. You can’t believe Cedric Diggory is dead. You can’t believe you just heard Potter say those three awful words. _He’s back. Voldemort._

Someone slams hard into your side, and you turn to see a wild-looking wizard with graying hair. He’s panicked, booking it toward Dumbledore and Fudge.

“My boy!” he cries, spotting Cedric’s body on the ground. He throws himself toward him, screaming, “My boy!”

Cedric’s father. Oh god. Oh _god._

You can’t help the sob that escapes as you turn away from the horrible scene, diving back into the crowd. It swallows you, surrounds you with chaos and noise. People are screaming, sobbing hysterically, clutching each other. You swim upstream, desperately clawing for a way through. You can’t be here anymore. You have to get out.

_Sev. Where’s Sev?_

He’s all you want. His arms, his voice. He’s the only thing you can think of.

After what feels like eternity, you break from the crowd. You can’t find anyone you know, alone in a sea of faces, but it doesn’t matter. You’ll meet Sev at the castle, and everything will be okay.

Of course, halfway there you’re detained by Benji, Colin and Brenna, who look absolutely shaken. They’re talking rapidly, clinging to each other, crying, and you can’t leave them. It even feels comforting, after a fashion, to dwell in your friends. Your anchors to reality and what it was like before the chaos. Colin’s muttered assurances that you’re all okay, Benji’s arm around your shoulders. You let them lead you back to the castle, because you can’t imagine parting from them. You’re suddenly wildly glad that neither Benji nor Colin was picked as a champion, and then wildly guilty for such an awful thought.

You spend a long time in the Slytherin common room with the others. Now that the initial panic has wound down, the atmosphere is deadly quiet, fearful. Many who knew Cedric are sobbing heaps, holding each other. Some sit blankly in chairs or on the ground—those who feel, you’re sure, much like you do at the moment. Empty. In shock.

After a while, when you and your friends run out of questions to ask—questions that no one can answer right now—you start to find the grim atmosphere unbearable. Oppressive. And Severus keeps running through your head. Where is he? How is he coping? 

_What are you going to do?_

You slip out of the common room, making some excuse to Benji and Colin about needing air. They let you go without comment. They understand your need to get away when you’re overstimulated.

You race immediately to Severus’ office and unlock the door with your key. But to your disappointment, it’s dark and empty. At least an hour has passed since Harry and Cedric came back—probably more like two or three. Where is he?

A bolt of insight hits. _Of course._ Where else would he go on a night like this?

Gathering your cloak around you, you race through the darkening corridors toward the southern tower. A storm has begun outside—you can hear the rain and thunder echo through the Great Hall’s empty space as you pass by. No one is in the halls to meet you. The entire castle feels silent and shadowy, deep in mourning with the rest of you. One of your own has fallen.

When you reach the tower stairs, you pause at the base for a long moment, one hand on the railing as you gaze up at the darkness above. Severus is up there—you know it completely, the way you know the sound of the wind or the color of the moon. But a pit of dread has been widening within you during this long walk from the dungeons, and now it gapes wide, threatening to swallow you whole.

Still, you take a deep breath and start to climb.

The southern tower’s wide, circular room is much as you left it earlier this afternoon, before the calamitous events of the third task. But now lit candles dot every surface, eerie light flickering in the shadows. You know immediately that you’re right as you come through the door. Severus sought sanctuary here.

And sure enough, you spot him immediately. He stands out on the balcony, silhouetted against the stormy night sky, both hands clutching the rail as if it’s the liferaft off a sinking vessel. Rain streams down on him, dark rivulets against black clothes. It soaks his hair, his face. He doesn’t seem to care.

You can read the tension in his shoulders even from yards away. The sinews stand out on his paper white hands, and a vein pulses in his jaw, and he’s so far back in his head he doesn’t notice your approach. He just stares, unseeing, into the falling twilight, face tilted up to catch the coming storm.

“Sev,” you call to him over a deep roll of thunder. And you watch as he ducks his head at your voice. His shoulders slump, his fists tighten around the railing. His eyes squeeze shut.

“[First name],” he replies softly. And you stop in your tracks because there’s...there’s _pain_ in his voice. 

You watch him for a long moment, his stark profile against the rain and lightning. His expression frightens you a little in its intensity and anger. And he won’t turn. Won’t look at you.

You’re filled with a sense of deep foreboding, a queer kind of _deja vu._ Something is coming.

Something _bad._

And for a moment you don’t want to know what it is. You don’t want to be here. For a moment, you want to run as fast as you can in the opposite direction and put off this interaction indefinitely.

But instead you step out into the rain with him. Because of course you do. There’s no other option.

You can’t think of anything to say, so you just stand beside him as the rain pounds down upon you both and lightning splits the sky. You don’t even bother with the hood of your cloak—the cold, heavy drops help clear your mind after this disastrous night. They keep you tethered to the here and now. And you need that.

You want to ask if Severus is okay, but it’s a stupid question. Of course he isn’t. The Dark Lord has returned. It’s the worst case scenario. The darkest timeline. The very idea of it haunts his nightmares, and now, with a catastrophic bang and a dead boy, it is fact.

Wanting to offer him what comfort you can, you reach out and take his hand. His vice-like grip moves to your fingers, and he squeezes hard for a long second...

Then he jerks his hand out of yours and pulls away from you entirely.

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and throaty, almost choking. _“Don’t.”_

You turn after him, confused, scared. “Sev, what—”

You reach out, but he backs away again, hand raised to fend you off. You push the dripping wet hair out of your eyes, feeling tears close beneath your lids. You swallow, breathe, fight them back. His eyes are steely and completely black, and you don’t want to know what’s going on behind them. You don’t want to hear what he has to say. You almost feel like pressing your hand against his mouth to keep it closed.

But his low voice rumbles through you before you can stop it. 

“This is over,” he says, and your stomach bottoms out. “We cannot see each other anymore.”

“What?” you whisper, and the tears do fall now, mixing with the rain pattering against your face. Another growl of distant thunder, and the wind picks up.

“You heard me,” Severus says, face tight. His eyes search yours, looking for comprehension.

“But...then...” you choke, then find your anger, and the next word comes out in a furious half-sob: _“Why?”_

Severus balks at your tone, a momentary look of pain, then he is stepping toward you, bending down to meet your eyes, expression fierce and intent.

 _“Why?”_ he repeats, rough, almost breaking. He seizes your upper arm. _“Why,_ [First name]?” He shakes his head. “Were you not at the task? Why do you _think?”_

“That has _nothing_ to do with us,” you insist. But that’s not true. You know it’s not true. You simply wish it was. 

Severus flinches back from you at this, teeth bared, tormented. “Don’t be a fool,” he says, shaking your arm slightly. “It has _everything_ to do with us.”

“Like _what?”_ you say, pulling away from him and furiously wiping your eyes. He echoes this with a microexpression of his own sadness, eyebrows furrowing for half a second before forcing himself hostile again.

“The Dark Lord has _returned,_ [First name],” Severus says. “He will call me to him—he has already tried tonight. I must go to him. Dumbledore...” He cuts himself off, teeth gritted, then looks back to you. “I am risking. My. _Life._ By ignoring him.” He searches your eyes desperately. “And I am risking _yours,”_ he says, “simply by standing here with you.”

“I know the risks,” you say, reaching up and grabbing his hands. “It’s not your decision to make.”

“My _decision?”_ he spits, pulling away again. “Of _course_ it’s my decision. It’s my _responsibility._ I _will_ keep you safe.”

“I can keep myself safe,” you insist, which just earns you a derisive sneer.

 _“Don’t_ you understand?” he hisses, his face pale with anger. He searches your eyes for a long moment before shaking his head. “No.” He scoffs, pulling back. “No, you don’t. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like last time.”

“So prepare me!” you say. “Tell me what to expect, and I’ll do what I have to, and we’ll—we’ll figure this out, Sev. _Together.”_

Severus looks away from you, pained. 

“[First name],” he says, so low it’s almost a whisper. “Simply being around me will put your life in danger.” He shakes his head again, shoulders dropping. “I cannot.”

“Yes, you can!” you argue. 

His eyes meet yours, and he gains back some of his passion. “I _will_ not, then,” he replies firmly. Coldly. 

You stare at him for a long, long moment. He’s not going to be swayed. You can see that. And it hurts.

Finally, Severus speaks: “It cannot be another way.” He swallows, then squares his shoulders. “This is how it ends.”

“No,” you reply, voice shaking. “No. This is _not_ how it ends.” 

You approach him quickly, reaching up to hold his rain-streaked face between your hands, your fingers tangling in his soaking black curtains of hair. He flinches but then is still, wanting to take comfort in your touch despite knowing he shouldn’t. You drag his face down to yours, resting your foreheads together in your classic symbol of solidarity. Severus closes his eyes, tortured.

“I’m not letting _him_ take you from me,” you whisper.

And for a second, he relaxes against you. You feel him shake his head, let out a mirthless little chuckle, and his long fingered hand cups your neck to press you firmly together. You squeeze your eyes shut too, feeling a sob well in your chest, wanting to hold onto this forever.

But it only lasts a moment. And Severus is pulling back.

“You are young,” he says, turning away. The depth of regret in his voice finally drags the sob from you, and you reach out to him in vain. He is backing up, backing away, ready to dissolve into the shadows. Ready to leave for good. “Move on. Live your life and leave me behind.”

“I can’t!” you cry. And suddenly you’re wild. The wind whips your hair around your shoulders, and you feel the crackle of the distant lightning in your veins. “What you’re asking of me...It’s impossible.”

Severus regards you for a long moment, black eyes intense.

“It is not,” he finally says.

“It _is,”_ you insist, almost yelling now. And Severus lunges toward you, closing the distance, towering over you. But he doesn’t touch you.

 _“Why?”_ he demands.

“Because I’m in love with you, you idiot!”

His eyes flicker. He takes an involuntary step back. You can’t read his face, but he’s staring at you. There’s certainly surprise there. But you can’t tell what else. Some complex mix of emotions. You simultaneously regret telling him and wouldn't take it back if someone offered you the world. You step close to him, reaching up to clutch at his wet robes, and he is frozen in place, staring.

“[First name],” he whispers, low and throaty, meeting your gaze with eyes so intense they look angry. And no other words come. He just stares at you, and time drags on.

You’re not nervous for his response, simply because you honestly don’t believe that he loves you back. But that’s okay, because you accepted that a long time ago. You do wonder if this will sway him, though. It certainly seems to have affected him. At least shocked him.

And to your surprise, Severus quickly closes the gap between you and takes your chin firmly in a slender, pale hand.

“Say that again,” he orders, voice low. And a smile starts around your lips as you look up at him through hair dripping with rain water.

“I love you, Sev,” you whisper. And Severus kisses you.

It lasts a long time. His hands fist in your hair like he’ll never let go, and his eyes are squeezed closed against the world. He ravishes your mouth commandingly, firmly, pulling you close and taking you in. You start to smile against him, thinking this a very good sign. Maybe...just maybe he does love you back. And maybe he knows, the way you do, that whatever dangers there are, you can face them together. It will be worth it.

Finally, Severus’ lips slow, and his grip relaxes, and soon you’re just breathing into each other’s mouths, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. Relishing this. You and him against the world. Just the way it should be.

Then Severus speaks. 

And he tears it all apart.

“That is exactly why this must end,” he says, his voice surprisingly rough and sad. 

You gasp, your eyes popping open—it’s a complete shock. You were sure, _sure_ that he was going somewhere else with this.

“Wait,” you say pitifully, and the tears are back, spilling freely, unable to be helped.

But Severus has already pulled away. “It’s over,” he says.

And he turns swiftly, and he melts into the shadows.

And then he’s gone.

Your legs, shaky after this long and awful night, finally give out. You crumple to your knees on the wet stone, letting the rain wash over you, letting the wind whip at your cloak and freeze you to your core. You played your final hand, the ace up your sleeve. Gave him everything you had. And it did not sway him. It changed nothing. 

So you let the rain and wind overwhelm you. You let the entire world be black and cold, because in this moment you don’t have the strength left to fight it.

He’s gone. He’s really gone.

And you can do nothing but bury your face in your hands and sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do want to say this: this fic will continue. I plan on taking us through Deathly Hallows. So if you’re planning on it ending soon...think again lmao we got three more books. I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided it’s all staying in this one massive fic. Easier for everyone to follow.
> 
> So I guess buckle tf up. We got a long way to go.


	41. Interlude: Letters

* * *

_ The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you.   
It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do.   
I never dreamed that I’d meet somebody like you.   
And I never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you. _

"Wicked Game" - Ursine Vulpine (ft. Annaca)    
(Original song by Chris Isaak)

* * *

_ Sev, _

_ I hope this letter finds you. I left Hogwarts last week, and I assume you went home for the summer too. You never told me where you live—I’m realizing there’s a lot you never told me. But Lysander (that’s my bird) is usually really good about that kind of thing. Finding people, I mean. So...Anyway, here’s hoping. _

_ I don’t even know how to begin. I can’t put what I want to say to you in a letter. But there’s so much left to be said. Not least of all that I love you, and I miss you, and I want you back.  _

_ But even if that’s impossible, can you please offer me some closure? That night feels surreal, like a nightmare, to the point where I honestly wonder if it even happened. I feel like if I just saw you again, just once, it would really sink in. You can reiterate your points, and I can try to understand. _

_ Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe I just  _ _ want _ _ to see you again, and I’m making excuses. But it’s worth a shot, right? _

_ Can we meet up? No expectations, I promise. Just to talk it out, just so I can wrap my head around it. I know you say it’s dangerous, but a graduated student saying hello to her favorite professor in a pub...I mean, how dangerous can that really be? _

_ I love you. I want to say it again, because I don’t think I’ll ever say it enough. No matter what your response is, I love you. _

_ [First name] _

* * *

_ Sev, _

_ Are you getting these letters? I can’t remember how many I’ve sent at this point—the days are sort of blurring together right now. Maybe you’re not getting them. I like telling myself that—it’s easier than thinking you’re ignoring me. But Lysander always returns empty-handed (empty-taloned?) so I think you are. _

_ I’m sorry if it bothers you. I’m sorry if you find it stifling or desperate. I’ll stop if you just answer me. Just once, just tell me you don’t want to hear from me. Tell me to stop, and I will. If you’d just answer. _

_ I want to know what you’re doing. What your day-to-day is like outside of school. I wonder about that a lot, at any given moment. Are you brewing? Are you sleeping? It’s tea time now—you’re probably sitting in some fancy leather chair near the window with a cuppa and a good book. I imagine you reading a lot.  _

_ And I worry, too, of course. There’s nothing in the newspapers about the Dark Lord, and it makes me hope things aren’t as bad as Dumbledore said. But I don’t know, because  _ _ no one knows _ _! Are you safe? Are you fighting some secret war? Are you with  _ _ him _ _? I hate the idea of you being in danger. It kills me. _

_ So I force those thoughts from my head. Mostly I think of you reading. The way you smile when something in the book amuses you, or the way your brow furrows when it’s getting intense. I used to watch you, you know. I loved watching you read. _

_ Is that weird? You probably find that weird. I just miss you. I love you. _

_ Please write back, if only so I know you’re okay. _

_ [First name] _

* * *

_ Sev, _

_ It’s been nearly a month since the last time we spoke. Why isn’t it getting easier? I don’t get it. _

_ I can’t stand this. I can’t think, I can’t sleep. I don’t know, somehow I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t know I could hurt like this—does that sound dramatic? You probably find it dramatic.  _

_ It’s true, though. I’ve never felt this way. It makes me wonder if I’ve ever really been in love before. There were others, you know. Times I thought I was. And it hurt when they ended. But nothing like this. That’s why this is so hard, I think. They were nothing like you. _

_ You’re probably rolling your eyes, thinking I’m a histrionic little girl. Well, fuck you! Some of us have fucking feelings, Sev—though I’m aware this is a concept you’re barely familiar with. _

_ I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m...unhappy. Obviously. But I miss you, and I love you. Please,  _ _ please _ _ get back to me. _

_ [First name] _

* * *

_ Severus, _

_ Letter one million and one, right? I’m absolutely inundating your post box at this point, I guess. You’re probably sick of the sight of Lysander. But right now I’m finding it very hard to care. _

_ I’m going to assume you’re not even reading these, so I can say whatever the hell I want. I can tell you that I’m angry. So angry I feel like screaming, smashing things. You left, and you won’t talk to me, and it pisses me off, and sometimes I hate you for it. Not a little, either—I hate you a lot, sometimes. It wasn’t fair.  _

_ I thought we had something. I’m fucking in love with you, and even though I know you don’t feel the same, I thought I meant more to you than this. This cold silence I’m getting...Was I anything to you? Or was I just an amusing little project, like a fucking science experiment? That’s what it feels like, honestly—more and more as the weeks pass. Have you already moved on? Do you even think of me? _

_ Do you regret what we had? _

_ I wonder about that a lot. I wonder if I regret it too. It would be easier that way. It would be easier not to miss you. _

_ But I do. And today, I also hate you. And at the same time, in the same horrible, painful breath, I love you. _

_ [First name] _

* * *

_ Answer me! Fucking ANSWER ME! Just once! Just a few words! This feels like fucking torture! I don’t deserve this—I didn’t DO ANYTHING! _

_ [First name] _

* * *

_ S, _

_ Please. _

_ [First name] _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be back soon ;)


	42. The Order of the Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely huge chapter here, my little babies, to make up for taking so long and the weird mini-chapter/interlude last time. Also to thank you for continuing to read and comment. 
> 
> There's a shit-ton of plot in this chapter, and I had fun writing it, but it's a bit of a departure from the usual. Which makes sense--things are gonna get kinda crazy around here. I hope you like it!
> 
> I love you very much.

* * *

_I fell for your magic,  
_ _I tasted your skin,  
_ _And though this is tragic  
_ _At least I found the end.  
_ _I witness your madness,  
_ _You shed light on my sins,  
_ _And if we share in this sadness  
_ _Then where have you been?_

"Run" - JOJI

* * *

The tiny bedroom at the back of the cottage—sitting on a quaint, sunny lane just outside of London—is a mess. A creaky old bed piled with mismatched blankets and far too many pillows takes up most of the space, leaving barely enough open floor for a beat-up trunk and a few stacks of books. Winding around those are crumpled clothes, pieces of parchment, spent candles and potions ingredients. In one corner, a white barn owl is sleeping in a cage perched upon a stack of dirty cauldrons, his head under one wing.

All the windows in the room are covered, blocking as much light as possible. It smells vaguely like weed and incense, and strongly like wine. A collection of bottles has begun along the windowsill, marking the progression of nights and the alcohol you’ve used to drown your grief and concern.

It’s past four in the afternoon, but you are still in bed, sleeping fitfully. Your dreams are never good anymore. 

This particular nightmare features Severus’ face, staring at you as if out of a dark cloud. He’s saying something, but you can’t hear his voice—he’s too far away—and no matter how fast you run, you can’t get any closer.

Even in sleep, this is not a surprise. You dream of him almost every night.

A knock on the bedroom door jolts you abruptly awake. Blinking in the gray afternoon sunlight, you roll over in bed and bring your head blearily up from under the pillows. Your head hurts. It usually does when you wake up nowadays—wine seems to be the only thing that puts you to sleep.

“Yeah?” you call, hoping it doesn’t sound like you just woke up. It’s mid-afternoon, and you still have something left of your pride.

“Morning, sunshine.” Your dad’s voice from beyond the door doesn’t _sound_ like he’s judging you, but you think he probably is. You need your own place. “You’ve got an owl.”

_Severus?_

Your heart leaps—that annoying, unfounded and desperate thing they call hope—and you slip quickly out of bed. Shrugging on a dressing gown, you crack the door to meet your father’s bemused face. He’s been so chill, so blase, about you being an utterly degenerate piece of shit since graduating school. Perhaps he thinks, as you do, that you deserve a break after seven years of hard academic work. But you also think he’s probably heard you crying at night. He hasn’t asked about it, though.

He hands you a thick, creamy envelope, and it only takes a glance at the handwriting on the front for your heart to sink back into its usual place. It’s not from Severus. You don’t know why you still think he’ll answer you—you’ve written him dozens of letters, and all you’ve gotten in return is silence.

Your dad sees your face fall. “Alright?” he asks. You’re not sure he’s prepared for this—his grown daughter moving in with him, newly free from school and, on top of everything, clearly mourning something she won’t talk to him about. But he’s doing his best, and you’re trying not to make his life hell.

“Yeah,” you say, falsely cheery, but you feel that lump in your throat that means you’re going to burst into disappointed tears at any second. It’s disgustingly commonplace now. You hate it.

“Who’s it from?” your dad asks, and you look at the letter again. Who _is_ it from? The handwriting is vaguely familiar, but you can’t place it.

So, shrugging, you open it. If it’s not from Sev, you don’t mind your dad knowing.

You’re surprised to feel a smile tug at your mouth as you scan the letter and see the signature at the bottom. “George,” you say fondly.

“Who?”

“George Weasley,” you say. “I told you about him—one of the twins.”

“Ah, right,” your dad replies. “Arthur’s boy.” He winks at you cheekily. “The one with the crush.”

You roll your eyes, smiling as you retreat back into your room. Your dad really has been amazing. He was surprised when you asked if you could live with him—just until you find a job and a flat—but he jumped at the chance.

Even after the calamitous events of the third task over a month ago, you still decided to stay in the U.K. You’d be lying if you said Severus isn’t a big part of that. You just can’t imagine going back to the states—it would feel like giving up.

You don’t know where he lives or how to contact him directly, so until you find out, you’re stuck with letters. Letters he hasn’t answered, no matter how good your arguments are. You were prepared for that, you suppose, but it still hurts.

It’s still over. The finality of it, of his last words to you, have not been eased or reversed. The most amazing thing you’ve ever known has come to an end.

And in the deepest, darkest corners of your mind, terror and concern breed like gnats. He said he had to return to the Dark Lord’s service or risk death. To continue his duties as Dumbledore’s spy after fourteen years of freedom. What if You-Know-Who discovered him? What if he flew into a rage at the sight of him?

You can’t think like that—you try desperately not to. But the worry remains, gnawing at your gut, keeping you awake. What if he’s not answering your letters because there is no more Severus to answer them?

The idea feels like a knife in your chest.

The _Prophet_ hasn’t reported his death, though you scan the pages every day for a tell-tale obituary. But would they report it, if Fudge is trying to keep the Dark Lord’s return quiet? You suspect that’s what’s happening. It’s what Dumbledore hinted at, anyway.

You hate not knowing. Sometimes that’s the worst part.

Sometimes.

You sink heavily onto your bed, still not having read George’s letter. That happens a lot—you’ll start thinking of Severus, of that night up in the southern tower, and forget to think of anything else. Longing for him consumes you. This pain is deep. You miss him so much you feel like screaming. You hate him for leaving you. You want to yell and cry, to throw yourself against him in your fury and show him how you hurt. You just want to hold him. You just want to hear his voice.

Without realizing it, you’re crying again. You wish you could skip this part. You wish your heart would just hurry up and heal. And it will at some point, you know that rationally—whether it takes years or decades, time heals all wounds. But right now it’s nowhere close.

That horrible night is so clear in your memory. Cedric Diggory’s death, the screaming crowd, the rain streaked balcony. You wonder sometimes, bitter and hating him, how long Severus had planned to leave you if the Mark burned. As soon as it started growing darker? Or was it a split-second decision?

You wish he’d told you sooner, so you could have guarded yourself. The shock is sometimes the worst of it, you think. How beautiful everything had been before, how dreamlike. And then, in a flash, utter ruin. A dead champion. A lightning struck tower. 

Though the night itself is clear, the following weeks are a blur. Term ended officially the day after the task, and Dumbledore gave a speech that night which confirmed the rumors already whirling around Hogwarts. The Dark Lord has returned.

You couldn’t look up at the staff table at dinner. Severus was up there. You saw him once more on the way out of the Entrance Hall as you headed down to the train station the next day. You hate to think that that will forever be your last glimpse of him—tall and pale and distant. 

So distracted by your loss, you also forgot to take a good last look around at the castle. The home you’ll never return to. Another reason to hate him.

You did do one thing before you left, however. Anger was already flashing behind the sadness—how _dare_ he leave you like this? How could he do this to you? You wanted him to feel the pain too.

It’s innocuous enough, you suppose. Perhaps not even cruel. But you left your key to his office dangling from the door handle in the dungeon. A silent, passive _fuck you._ Honestly, you were crying while you did it. It was really more pitiful than anything. But you couldn’t keep the key.

The bracelet he gave you is a different story. Even now, you’re wearing it around your left wrist, the tiny silver S resting against your pulse point. It hurts every time you glance at it, but you can’t bear to undo his enchantment and take it off. It seems too permanent—like saying goodbye for good. So you just avoid looking at your wrist. 

The sky was blue and cloudless as the Hogwarts Express left the station. You sat with Benji, Brenna and Colin, barely speaking, pleased to be able to pass off your despair on Dumbledore’s warnings about the Dark Lord and Diggory’s death. It’s not like the mood on the train was particularly festive all around.

Many students were already having problems with Dumbledore’s story. Benji was one of these, firmly saying he thought the headmaster might have finally cracked. There was no way, he said, that the Dark Lord was back. You assumed he simply didn’t _want_ to believe, and you kept your mouth shut. It’s not like you could tell him about your insider information.

So that was it. Rather anticlimactic, all things considered. You finished your magical education and moved in with your father (he also doesn’t believe the Dark Lord has returned, his trust in the Ministry absolute, but you’ve been too depressed to argue the point.) You barely speak to him, sleeping most of the hours away and drinking when you’re not sleeping.

It’s not healthy. You know that. But for fuck’s sake, you need to let yourself have this. This is the worst heartbreak you’ve ever experienced, by far. 

You wonder if Severus is longing for you, too.

You inhale, cutting those thoughts off. Down that path lies danger and overthinking and raised hopes. Even if he is—even if he misses you and wants you—he’s too fucking stubborn to admit it. Too fucking stubborn to even _write you back._

_Assuming he’s still alive._

You shake that away fiercely and look down at the letter clutched in your hands, now crumpled where you balled it unconsciously in your fists. You smooth out the parchment as well as you can and lay back on your bed, curious and eager to get your mind on something other than Severus.

_Dear [First name],_

_How are you? Surviving? I hope the N.E.W.T.s went well. I meant to ask about them at school...Are they really as bad as everyone says? Or can me and Fred get away with a bit of slacking next year?_

_Obviously, I didn’t get the chance to ask you about it after the third task. I don’t even know what to say about that... Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up. Oops. But I guess it’s too late now. So let’s just acknowledge that it was complete shit and move on._

_I hope you’re okay—I looked for you after, but I couldn’t find you. And then with how chaotic leaving school was...Anyway, I just hope you’re okay. All things considered, I mean. I don’t think any of us are really_ _okay_ _, after that._

_Bloody hell, I’m rambling. I really just wanted to write and say I miss you. Fred does too. And we were wondering—how would you feel about spending some time with us over the summer? We’re not at home, currently, but we want to meet up. Maybe just for drinks? We have an interesting proposition._

_And no, it’s not testing out the Skiving Snackboxes._

_Anyway, let me know soon as you can! We’re both eager to see you (but me most of all)._

_Cheers,_

_George_

You smile and press the letter to your lips for a brief moment. For the first time in weeks, your mood is slightly elevated. The prospect of seeing the twins feels like a balm. You have more energy than you’ve had in days.

Sighing, you sit up and begin to search the absolute junkyard that is your bedroom for a quill and parchment.

You take a deep breath, staring in the mirror. It’s the end of July, and this is the first time since leaving Hogwarts that you’ve dressed in something more substantial than cotton pajamas. And compared to how you looked yesterday—ratty, unwashed hair and an inside-out sweatshirt—this is a huge improvement.

You’re comfy and casual in ripped black jeans and a Flaming Lips shirt. The twins want to meet you at the Leaky Cauldron, which means a brief trip through London, and you’d prefer not to be stared at in your robes.

The moon is starting to rise by the time you Apparate to Charing Cross Road, though the avenue is still bustling with shoppers. You stroll down the sidewalk toward the pub, looking around the charming lane with a twinge of guilt. London is an actual dream—vast, beautiful, full of history and culture—but you’ve completely ignored it for over a fucking month. You’ve opted, instead of getting out and exploring and having experiences a young woman should, to lay in bed and mope. All over some _guy._

 _But he’s not just some guy,_ you think helplessly. _He’s everything I want._

Aaaaand there it is, that familiar sinking of despair, seemingly ever-present nowadays. You wonder if even the twins will be able to distract you from it.

You head into the Leaky Cauldron, which is noisy and packed with an eclectic mix of magical folks. Two wizards at the bar wearing matching green cloaks argue loudly about goblin rights while a beautiful witch in a floppy purple hat regards them irritably from behind her copy of the _Prophet._ Over by the fire, a group of youths are huddled together, whispering over something which buzzes and crackles between them. In the corner, a mad-looking witch with an eyepatch and frizzled gray hair shoots you the devil symbol with her pointer and pinky finger.

You’re just looking around for that familiar flash of bright red hair when you’re suddenly swooped upon from behind. Two warm, muscular arms wrap around your waist and lift you fully off the ground.

“[First name]!” 

You squeal, knowing immediately that it’s George as he sets you back down. You spin toward him, giggling, and throw your arms around his neck, taking in his warmth and smell. Oh, you’ve missed him.

He hugs you back, squeezing and grinning and rocking you side to side, for a long time. You don’t want to let him go, you realize, and he accommodates beautifully. To your horror, you feel hot tears prick your eyelids. There’s no other way to put this—George is a taste of home, something you haven’t felt since leaving Hogwarts. He’s not Severus, the only one who would actually satisfy you, but he’s a taste.

“Alright, you two,” Fred says, coming up beside his brother. “Settle down. We’re in public.” 

Laughing, you throw your arms around Fred in turn. “I’ve missed you!” you say genuinely.

“Us too,” George replies. He’s beaming brilliantly.

The three of you start moving toward a table near the corner of a pub, one of the few available places to sit. “Good holiday, [Last name]?” Fred asks, settling into his seat.

You shrug as you sit, not wanting to lie, but also not wanting to bum everybody the fuck out. “How about yours?”

The twins glance at each other. “Been alright,” George says, though he sounds less than enthusiastic. “How are you finding the graduated life? Get that job yet?”

The three of you chat for a while, ordering stiff drinks and slowly relaxing into each other’s company. You’re pleasantly surprised by how easy and natural it feels. You know it’s only been a month, but so much has happened in your emotional sphere, it feels like much longer. But George and Fred are still here. Still wonderfully themselves.

Inevitably, as the evening wears on and empty cups start to fill the table, the conversation turns to what happened during the third task. You knew it would come up as soon as you read George’s letter, but you’ve been dreading it.

“Bloody awful,” Fred says, signalling to the barkeep for another firewhiskey. “And not that we’ve been expecting sunshine and roses, but it feels like a dark cloud’s hanging over everything.”

You nod, understanding. “Shit’s really weird right now,” you say. “People are scared.”

“Some people,” George replies bitterly. “Lots of them just think Dumbledore’s finally gone soft.”

You roll your eyes. “Idiots.”

It’s like you said the magic word. The twins glance at each other conspiratorially, then lean toward you. You regard them warily—something’s on their minds.

“You believe him, then?” George asks.

“Of course I do,” you reply. “It was...inevitable, wasn’t it?”

Fred’s brows furrow. “How d’you reckon?”

 _Shit._ The only reason you know that is because of Severus. His Dark Mark, his explanations about Dumbledore and Harry Potter. Of course, Fred and George wouldn’t be aware of any of that.

“Call me a pessimist,” you reply, shrugging. “They never found his body after he killed the Potters, right?”

“Always wondered about that,” Fred mutters. 

“And now,” George continues, “back from the dead. Didn’t know it was possible.”

“If he was ever dead to begin with,” you say, furrowing your brow thoughtfully as you bring your glass up to your lips. Now that they mention it, how _had_ the Dark Lord managed it? You haven’t really considered it.

_I bet Severus will know._

The thought is so second-nature, it takes a moment to realize you will likely never get the opportunity to ask him. You scowl at the table. 

“Why’d you even bring this up?” you ask George, who looks a bit affronted for a moment before he glances at his brother, and identical grins spread across their faces.

Fred leans toward you. “So I reckon you consider it a bad thing that he’s back.”

“Of course it is!” you reply, a little loud and angry. 

Fred rears back, hands raised defensively. “Just making sure.”

“Not everyone does, [First name],” George adds evenly. “And before we tell you anything else, we just wanted to...”

“Make sure you’re on our side,” Fred finishes.

Now it’s your turn to lean forward. “You’ve been hinting at some kind of proposition all night,” you say, somewhat impatiently. “Why are we really here?”

Again, the boys glance at each other. Their eyes are shining, and while their grins are a bit nervous, they’re eager.

“How would you feel,” George asks, “about joining the fight?”

The three of you talk around the table in the Leaky Cauldron for the rest of the evening, long past most of the patrons, until half the lamps have been dimmed and the Tom the barkeep is pointedly stacking chairs on the table next to you. Finally, yawning and stretching, George leads the charge to stand and head out of the pub.

You hug the twins goodbye, planning to see them very soon, and they Disapparate. You, meanwhile, wander down the sidewalk. You need to walk, to think. To work through everything they told you.

You’d never heard of the Order of the Phoenix—the history of the last British Wizarding war is not your strong suit. But they were active last time. Led by Dumbledore and filled with dozens of brave and honorable witches and wizards, they were the first defense and last stand against the Dark Lord. Lily and James Potter were part of it. It’s the reason they died.

And now, Dumbledore is gathering troops again. And though the twins can’t promise you’ll be accepted, they’ve offered you an in.

The idea fills you with a mix of determination and dread. Part of you wishes you could have said no, absolutely not, leave me out of this. Part of you wants to run and hide and bury your head in the sand. It will be dangerous, you know that. But then, war usually is.

The Dark Lord’s return could destroy the Wizarding world as you know it. He is the purest form of evil you’ve ever heard of, prejudiced and violent. He can and will commit genocide based solely on arbitrary blood status. Half of your family are No-Majes, and while they’re currently safe in America, who knows how far his empire could spread over time.

All of that is more than enough to seal your decision. But there’s one other thing, like the fucking cherry on top:

The Dark Lord stole directly from you. He destroyed the best thing you’d ever known. He made it impossible to be with the man you love. 

It’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. But you keep thinking... _if we can defeat him, Sev and I can be together._

Really, what choice do you have? He must be brought down, and your interest in it is personal.

As you wind your way down moonlit London streets, paying very little attention to where you’re actually going, your resolve gets stronger and stronger. You’ll do whatever you can to help vanquish the Dark Lord. You’ll die trying.

The conversation with Fred and George lights a spark inside of you, something you haven’t felt since Sev left. You start sleeping a bit better, and you’re not as tired during the day.

It’s probably because you’re keeping busy. The twins have set up an interview with a few Order members next week, just to get a read on you and decide if you’re right for recruitment (the word of two seventeen-year-old boys, not yet even Order members themselves, doesn’t go as far as you’d all like it to.) And in the meantime, you do everything you can to prove you’re a thriving, accomplished witch.

First, you take the exam to become a Master of Potions. It’s long and grueling, taking an entire day to sit through, but honestly it’s not much worse than the N.E.W.T. You signed up almost on a whim—you hadn’t planned to take it so soon—while wandering Diagon Alley one afternoon, and had come in to sit the test the very next day. You figured you’d ride out your N.E.W.T. studying while it’s fresh in your mind—take advantage.

And it’s worth it. You kill the exam. You have your score before leaving the building—it’s a very small testing center—and you strut out of there holding a diploma that proudly names you Potions Master. This means you can now do anything from brewing at St. Mungo’s to teaching at Hogwarts (the idea of stealing Severus’ job is somewhat tempting). Of course, you’ll use it to work at an apothecary...and hopefully one day run your own.

Speaking of apothecaries, you visit every single one around London over the course of the week (there are only six within a reasonable distance) and leave your resume at each. You’re hoping to work for Mr. Mulpepper in Diagon Alley (you were able to meet the aging wizard when you visited, and you liked him immensely) but honestly, you’ll take what you can get.

Keeping busy helps your sanity and fends off some anxiety, so the week passes quickly. On Friday, you’re in London again, pushing through bustling crowds toward the Leaky Cauldron. You’ve had something of a glow-up in the meantime—hair cut and colored, a new dress, new shoes. You look put-together and fairly grown up; Fred and George kept impressing on you how important it is to look older than you are, as they are of age and still not allowed in the Order (though this is more due to their mother’s interference than anything.)

The pub is quieter than last time, given that it’s the middle of a work day. You’re feeling rather nervous as you scan the room for red hair—while Fred and George won’t be here, they said they’d send their brother, Bill. But before you spot him, a different familiar face catches your attention.

“Professor?” you ask, moving toward the occupied four top at the center of the room. 

McGonagall, perched primly on one of the chairs, nods when she sees you, beckoning you over. Her face is stern, all-business, and your stomach flip-flops. This already feels like a job interview, and now we’re adding one of the strictest teachers at Hogwarts to the mix.

You glance to her right, where a man sits, regarding you carefully. He’s tall and slender, wearing a coffee-colored sweater that’s fraying at the edges and pushed casually back to his elbows. His arms are criss-crossed with scars, you notice as you move closer. He’s got scars across his face too. And though he couldn’t be much older than Severus, streaks of gray run through his light brown hair. There’s a sort of prematurely-mature fatigue in the way his lanky frame drapes against the chair. His eyes are huge, though, and strikingly green. Strikingly sharp.

You realize you’re staring at him as you move closer. There’s something of a mystery there—his eyes, you think, or the scars. Or the way he watches you, face impassive. You flick your gaze to the third person at the table, embarrassed by your fascination.

This has to be Bill. He’s got the twins’ flaming red hair, pulled back into a ponytail, though he’s taller and thinner than his younger brothers. He looks like the edgy type—leather jacket, dragon fang earring, ripped jeans. And he’s good-looking, apparently another typical Weasley trait. Most importantly, however, the kind grin stretching across his face reminds you forcibly of George.

Bill stands, reaching out as you come up to the table. You’re sure he can see how nervous you are. “[First name]!” he says warmly, taking your hand in both of his—huge, rough, weathered—and pumping firmly. “Glad to meet you. Fred and George tell us good things.”

You giggle, relaxing a little. “Bill, right?”

“Right,” Bill agrees, gesturing you into your chair before taking his seat again. He waves toward McGonagall. “Reckon you’ve met Minerva.”

“Good to see you, professor,” you say, reaching out to shake her hand. She finally manages a small smile, which fills you with strange relief. You always feel like you’re in trouble around McGonagall.

“And this is Lupin,” Bill finishes, gesturing toward the scarred man, who reaches forward to shake too.

“Remus,” he says. The lines around his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and he suddenly looks much younger.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” you say. “When I heard what you were doing—”

“Let’s not get into details preemptively,” McGonagall interrupts, glancing around. “We’re simply here to lay eyes on you and ask a few questions to assess whether you’ll be a good fit.”

“Fred and George speak very highly of you,” Bill assures you, leaning back in his chair.

“All the same,” Remus says mildly, almost apologetically, “we can’t go on their word alone.”

“Of course,” you say, surprised they’re even taking the time to justify themselves to you. It’s rather kind, you think. “I wouldn’t expect that.”

“How many years of defensive training do you have, [Last name]?” McGonagall asks briskly. _Straight to business._ “I noticed you didn’t take that class at Hogwarts. Nor were you in mine.” Her lips tighten a little, and you suppose you understand. Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts would both be useful in the field.

Still, you don’t try to lie. “Six years,” you say. 

“And you dropped them during your N.E.W.T. year because...?”

“Because I want to be an alchemist,” you reply. “And frankly, I was going to take as few credits as I could.” You catch Bill’s sly grin and chuckle, adding, “Not because I’m lazy. Just...efficient.”

Remus nods slowly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “You know what you want.”

“I’m a damn good potioneer,” you say, nodding. Why not brag a little? “I just became a Master, actually.” It’s remarkably nice to admit this; you suddenly feel a grin spreading across your face.

“That could be useful, right?” Bill asks, glancing at the other two. “Someone around to brew.”

You assume you’ve already got him on your side, and you think Remus is leaning that way too—the twins told you that the Order is desperate for members, whatever hoops they make you jump through. But McGonagall is clearly not convinced, which you honestly get. You spent most of the previous year avoiding her for various reasons, and it can’t have escaped her notice.

“We have more than one member already who can brew a potion,” she replies, and your heart sinks. She’s no longer speaking to you, turned instead toward Remus. “I want to know if this girl can defend herself. We can’t take on a liability—she’s quite young...”

“I won’t be a liability,” you say firmly. McGonagall doesn’t even dignify this with a response, which makes you clench your fists under the table. 

“Sirius and I were her age when we joined,” Remus says after a moment of thought, glancing at you. “Younger, I think.”

“That was last time,” McGonagall says dismissively.

“Fleur is her age,” Bill adds.

“I’m quite good at defense,” you insist, though this is stretching the truth a bit—you were never top of your class. Though, to be fair, you weren’t at the bottom either. “Test me, if you want.”

“This is _not school,_ [Last name],” McGonagall stresses. “This is not a game. War is dangerous, and I’m not terribly convinced a child—”

“I’m not a child,” you interrupt, almost angry as you think back on Severus’ attitude toward you. The reasons he left you. “I can think for myself, and I _know_ the risks.”

Remus is regarding you carefully. “Besides brewing potions,” he says, “I’d like to hear what you can do.”

“Everything that matters,” you reply. “And if I don’t know something, I’m a fast learner. I’m more than a competent spell caster.” You bite your cheek, searching for more when no one stops you. “I did a bit of dueling at Salem, I can cast wordlessly...” McGonagall is just watching you, unimpressed. You think for a moment, almost desperate. Then it hits you. “I can do Legilimency.”

This gets their attention. Bill raises his eyebrows and smiles, Remus leans closer, and McGonagall lifts her chin, finally eyeing you with interest.

“How well?” she asks.

You shrug. You don’t want to lie, but you’re going to bend the truth a bit here. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Ever done it in the wild?” Lupin asks. “Out of controlled settings, I mean.”

A touch of sadness washes over you as you remember the dungeons, those tortured black eyes, those awful memories.

“Once,” you whisper, not able to meet anyone’s eye.

“How’d it go?”

“It was successful,” you reply. You look up again—the Order members are casting silent glances back and forth. Bill is smirking. You take a deep breath, wanting this under your control. “Listen,” you say. “I can be a benefit to you. I know I can. I’m young, I’m talented and I’m unattached. I have no children and barely any family in the country.”

“No husband?” Remus asks. “No boyfriend?” Another sting of pain, but you shake your head. “How about a girlfriend? Wife?”

“No one.” It’s an honest answer, and you can tell they see that. You lean closer to them, dropping your voice. “I’m willing to give myself to this cause,” you say. “The return of the—” You cut yourself off—only Death Eaters and sympathizers use the term _Dark Lord,_ and Severus got you into the fairly bad habit because he would cringe any time you said _You-Know-Who._ You suddenly hate him for that.

“His return,” you say after taking a sip of your drink. “It’s made me rethink everything. It’s turned my world upside-down, in a way. Kind of...shocked me out of complacency. I don’t see a tranquil future for myself anymore. I don’t want one.” You can hear the fervor in your own voice, and you can tell the others do too. Who cares if you’re rambling? They’re watching you intently, hooked on every word. “I want to join the fight. I want to help bring him down, and if that means doing menial work, being the grunt—because I’m young and fairly inexperienced—then I’ll do it gladly. But if you take advantage of my talents, I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

You finally shut your mouth, a bit flushed. There’s your pitch. Hopefully they accept it.

Bill is grinning widely, and a smile touches Remus’ lips as well. But most important, McGonagall’s expression has softened considerably.

“Pomona always liked you,” she says after a moment, and you feel a rush of pride. You liked Professor Sprout too. “And Severus, of course. I suppose that says more than anything.” You try not to react, but she’s not looking at you anymore, turning her gaze on Remus. “What do you think?”

“We need the numbers, Minerva,” he replies. He glances at you, gaze moving up and down. “And the passion.” Bill nods enthusiastically.

McGonagall scrutinizes you for a long moment, lips pressed together in a tight line. You feel like she’s gazing into your soul—and if she’s using Legilimency, she’s surely learning a lot of scandalous secrets. But you just meet her eyes and gaze back. It’s too late for anything else.

Finally, McGonagall nods and extends her hand. You can’t help your smile as you reach out and take it.

“We’ll speak to Dumbledore,” she says. “He’s the final say, of course.”

“Of course,” you reply.

And then the three of them are draining their drinks and rising from their chairs, clearly busy, or at least eager to be doing something else. You jump up too, shaking McGonagall’s hand again before she marches away. Bill claps you on the shoulder, grinning, and whispers that he’ll tell the twins. He follows her out.

You turn to Remus, who is still regarding you with that curiously mild expression. His face gives nothing away, relaxed and even pleasant, but god his eyes are piercing. You have a feeling there’s not much he doesn’t see.

“Thank you,” you whisper, reaching out to shake his hand. “Thank you for this chance.”

Lupin nods. There’s something sad in his eyes. He reaches out and clasps a pale, scarred hand against your shoulder, his thin fingers squeezing briefly.

“Welcome to the Order,” he says, barely managing a smile.

He walks away, leaving you with a deep sense of foreboding. Despite McGonagall’s warnings, you’ve kept yourself from dwelling too deeply on the dangers. This is more important than fear, you know that. You’re sure of it in a way you’ve rarely been sure of anything. 

But the pity in Lupin’s eyes, the knowingness...Like he recognizes something in you. Like he can see your fate, and it’s not a happy one.

It scares you.

Three days later, you find yourself once again in an unfamiliar part of central London—a borough called Islington, well removed from the more recognizable Charing Cross Road. You’re meeting Bill Weasley here at a small coffee shop in the early evening, ready to attend your first Order meeting.

Word of Dumbledore’s acceptance arrived two days ago in the form of three grinning Weasleys on your doorstep. Bill just shook your hand warmly as he told you, but Fred and George were bouncing all over the place, congratulating you loudly. It had actually been kind of hard to dodge your dad’s questions after that, though you ended up telling him they were going on about your Potions Master title. You just need your own place, now more than ever.

You spent the next few days trying not to freak out. It’s official, which makes it so _real._ Not just the Order, but the Dark Lord and the war too. These huge, looming monoliths casting their shadows over your life.

You wonder what part you will play in the fight. You wonder if you’ll be able to do what Dumbledore asks of you. 

You’re scared of failing him and the Order. They’re taking a chance on you, as McGonagall made clear, and you can’t let them down.

So you take a deep breath as you round the corner toward the coffee shop. You couldn’t sleep at all last night; anxiety kept you tossing and turning—the war, the Dark Lord, Severus—and after a good long try, you’d finally sighed and reached for the wine. 

Your head still hurts a bit this evening, but at least London’s horrible heat wave seems to have broken. It’s been raining all day, actually, and only a tricky little drying charm has managed to keep your hair from getting soaked. You’re trying very hard not to feel as hungover as you do.

You spot Bill a bit down the block. He’s standing just outside the front door of the cafe, dragging on a cigarette and looking very at ease and casual in the neon lights from the windows.

He grins easily when you come up to him, dropping his smoke and stamping it out with a dragon hide boot. “Wotcher?”

“Hey,” you reply, smiling. You like Bill immensely—he’s a bit too-cool-for-school, but he’s got the same sense of humor as the twins. You gesture toward the coffee shop. “We going in?”

“Nah,” he replies, gently nudging your arm to get you to walk beside him. “Didn’t want to meet on the block— we’re not putting any part of the address in writing, see? Not safe.”

“Right,” you say, taking two steps for every one of long strides. Already, this feels very clandestine. Secret agent stuff.

“Dumbledore’s Secret Keeper,” Bill goes on. “So we couldn’t talk about it if we wanted. All the same, better safe than sorry, innit?”

You nod vaguely, trying to urge your brain into working at its usual speed, so you can remember every detail he tells you. But you’re feeling a bit slow and overwhelmed. _Note to self: Never drink the night before Order stuff._

You move into a residential area of the borough—narrow brick row houses, squished side by side, light from the windows spilling into the darkening street. Bill stops you on the sidewalk outside of number 13 and digs in his pockets for a moment. 

“Here,” he says, withdrawing a piece of paper and handing it on to you.

You look down to the note, written in loopy, elegant font you don’t recognize.

_The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

“Did Dumbledore write this?” you ask. Bill nods, taking the paper back and burning it with a flick of his wand.

“Go on, then,” he urges. “Think of the address.”

Of course, as soon as you do so, Grimmauld Place reveals itself. A door pops into view between two of the row houses— _No. 12—_ followed by walls and grime-encrusted windows. A neat little enchantment.

When you approach the black door, embellished with a silver serpent, you cock Bill an eyebrow. 

“Proud Slytherins, then?” you ask.

“This is Black’s house,” he replies lowly, tapping his wand against the door. You nod—you knew that already—and wait for more. But Bill doesn’t elaborate. Presumably the Blacks are a well-known family in Wizarding Britain. Presumably, they have Slytherin connections.

Bill’s not looking at you—his attention is fixed completely on the door, where various locks and bolts are clicking and undoing all down its length. Then it slowly creaks open, revealing the interior of twelve Grimmauld Place.

Old-fashioned gas lamps sputter to life around the space, casting more shadow than light into the long, cramped hallway. Threadbare carpet, peeling wallpaper, a cobwebby chandelier and age-blackened portraits along the walls. It smells musty and ancient, like you’re cracking the seal of a tomb.

As you and Bill step inside and slip off your robes to hang them on the tarnished silver hooks by the front door, you hear footsteps coming up the stairs at the end of the hall. A plump woman with bright red hair appears, cheeks flushed, clearly expectant.

“Oh, Bill,” she says softly, almost a whisper. She beams and beckons him toward her, enfolding his lanky frame in a warm hug. Over his shoulder, she graces you with a warm smile.

“Mum,” Bill says, pulling back and coming over to you. He places a hand on your shoulder to move you toward her. “This is [First name] [Last name]. New recruit.”

 _Mum?_ Fuck, _obviously._ You’ve been eager to meet her.

“Of course,” Mrs. Weasley says, beaming and coming forward to clasp your hand in both of hers, eyes shining merrily. “Fred and George have told me so much, dear.”

“I’m so happy to meet you, Mrs. Weasley,” you say, grinning back. She’s got such a warm, kind energy, it’s hard not to love her instantly.

“Molly, dear, just Molly,” she insists, and you shrug happily. You wonder if the twins are here.

“They’re all downstairs,” Molly says to Bill before you can ask, moving aside so the two of you can pass. “Just waiting on a few more—including the Advance Guard, but I’m sure you two could go in and get started.” She turns to you, clasping your hand again. “Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks,” you reply, swallowing as Bill pushes you ahead toward the door. Your throat suddenly feels a bit dry. 

You head down a narrow staircase and soon come to another wooden door. Pushing through, you enter a gloomy basement kitchen—cavernous with rough stone walls. A large fire burns at the far end, providing most of the light. A long table has been crammed into the room, littered with rolls of parchment, goblets and wine bottles.

About half a dozen people are already here, and all eyes flick up as soon as you enter with Bill directly behind you. You suddenly feel self-conscious, sure his lanky form dwarfs you and makes you look very small and young. 

Another red-headed Weasley takes up the opposite end of the table, presumably the twins’ father. Bill himself leaves your side and immediately beelines toward someone you recognize—Fleur Delacour, last year’s Beauxbatons champion. He leans down to kiss her—when did that happen?—and you smile at her. The part-veela smiles back, but there’s no recognition in her eyes. You weren’t ever really even acquaintances, and you doubt Fleur recognizes you as the girl who got her rapist classmate prosecuted by the Wizengamot.

A large bundle of rags sits in the chair to Fleur’s left, smoking a pipe. You have to look closer to see it’s a weathered man, possibly homeless.

Then the wizard at your end of the table turns to face you, and you have to fight a flicker of surprise. Of course, you knew he’d be here. But it’s still jarring. You recognize him from the front pages of so many papers.

KILLER ESCAPED FROM AZKABAN.

DANGEROUS CRIMINAL ON THE RUN.

MURDERER STILL AT LARGE.

Sirius Black. He looks very similar to his Azkaban mugshot—long black hair, hollow cheeks, haunted eyes. The vestiges of an absolute heartbreaker, now reduced by years in prison to a ghost of himself. Still, he’s beautiful in a tragic way. And his eyes, though heavily ringed, are almost as incisive as Severus’.

Those eyes sweep over you thoroughly, full of interest and mistrust. And attraction—you can read that there too, and you’re sure he wants you to. Sirius Black has the easy air of a man whose bed is rarely empty. A playboy.

_Or at least, he used to be._

So you meet his gaze unflinchingly, a challenge of your own. His smile grows, making him look more like the roguish boy he once was.

You almost miss Bill introducing you to the group, having to rip your eyes away from Sirius Black.

“She’s a year above Fred and George,” he’s explaining. “Just recently graduated, but they introduced us. She managed to impress McGonagall so...” He trails off, winking at you, and you roll your eyes.

 _“Impressed_ isn’t the word I’d use,” you reply dryly, which makes Mr. Weasley chuckle.

“Anyway,” Bill says, grinning and shrugging, “Dumbledore agreed to recruit her.”

“Recently graduated,” Sirius says, leaning back in his chair, directing his question at you. “How recently, then?”

You almost sigh. More age stuff.

“June,” you admit. 

Sirius raises his eyebrows, but his next question surprises you. “Which house?”

You quirk a brow at him. _Seriously?_

“Is that...relevant?” you ask carefully. You’re almost positive he already knows—if Fred and George told them as much as everyone keeps saying, you’re probably already famous around these parts as The Only Good Slytherin or something.

For his part, Sirius just leans back smugly in his chair. “I think that answers that.”

“Christ,” you snap, suddenly annoyed. House rivalries might be important to those indoctrinated by seven years at Hogwarts, but it seems incredibly petty to you. “I actually went to Salem for most of school.”

“Blimey,” grunts the lump of rags from the other side of the table. He shifts forward, curious. “American, are you?”

“Guilty,” you reply. You turn back to Sirius firmly, whose eyebrows are raised. “So when you ask which house, the answer is none. But when I was at Hogwarts, I was in Slytherin. And I’m proud of that.” You pause, watching him, then say in a relatively pleasant tone, “Will that be a problem?”

Sirius lets the grim staredown go on a little longer before he finally cracks a grin and raises his hands in a _you got me_ gesture.

“Not when you put it like that,” he says, eyes running over you, glittering with mirth and appreciation.

“[First name],” Bill calls, also smiling, “these are some of the members of the Order.” He lists them clockwise, from the opposite end of the table. “My dad, Arthur Weasley. This is Fleur—I’m sure you remember from the Triwizard Tournament. This here’s Mundungus Fletcher. And Sirius Black.”

“Nice to meet all of you,” you say.

“Sit,” Sirius says, pulling out the chair next to him. “And welcome to the Order.”

“Welcome!” most of the others at the table say, smiling. The homeless-looking man just grunts.

“Thanks,” you chirp, trying to relax. This is going okay, you think. The others seem nice, accepting, if clearly curious about you. You wonder exactly what Fred and George have said.

“I, for one, could use some wine,” Sirius announces, leaning forward to reach for a bottle and goblet.

“Yes!” you nearly shout, desperate for _something_ to help you loosen up.

Bill snorts goodnaturedly at your outburst, but Fleur says eagerly, “Yes, me too. Won’t you, Bill?” And the red-head reaches for the wine at his end of the table.

Sirius slides the bottle over to you once he fills his own goblet, _still_ watching you over the rim as he sips. As if he could just eat you up. _What a flirt._

You pour yourself a generous glass and raise it to your lips, meeting his eyes. His gaze is very direct, intense, and you notice he’s got a number of tattoos marking the exposed skin of his chest. Of course, you’re aware of his time in Azkaban, but it seems even that hasn’t destroyed his confidence. 

You vaguely wish the twins were here as the rest of the table lapses back into quiet conversation and Sirius’ eyes do not leave you. They’d make everything so much easier. They wouldn’t _let_ you feel awkward.

“So,” Sirius says finally, placing his goblet on the table. “American, recently graduated, Slytherin.” He grins, leaning forward. “What else can you tell me about yourself?” His eyes search yours. “What’d Dumbledore see in _you?”_

You’re a bit offended by the question—does he mean you’re not impressive?—and it makes you want to lash back. So you pretend to think, swirling your wine in your cup. 

“Well, I’m not a convicted murderer, for one,” you reply after a long moment.

Sirius instantly goes silent, and you blanch. It was just a joke...You thought it was funny, assumed his ego could handle it...but maybe it was too far?

Then, to your immense relief, Sirius bursts into laughter. 

It seems to take him by surprise, the force of it, because he pounds fist into the table and leans back in his chair. You watch him—the way his eyes light up, the way the laughter tugs lines into his gaunt cheeks—and can’t help but smile yourself. He’s a charming laugher, and you want him to do it more often.

You giggle as he winds down, wiping his eyes. “Fair,” he says. “I suppose that’s absolutely fair, isn’t it?” He points at you, his smile like a knife, and reaches out to touch your wrist. “I’ll have to watch my back around you, won’t I?”

You laugh again and open your mouth to respond.

But that’s when the door behind you begins to open, and Sirius’ gaze is distracted. He straightens and looks toward it, still chuckling, still touching your wrist. There’s eagerness in his eyes—he’s been waiting for someone.

You turn around as the newcomer steps into the kitchen, the last vestiges of laughter still bubbling from your throat. You're expecting Lupin, perhaps, or even Dumbledore, here to start the meeting.

There's a split second, when you see who it is, that your mind refuses to compute. The smile vanishes from your face, and you feel your entire body stiffen before you even really understand why. You just wish you could breathe...but you can't. Your lungs refuse to fill.

Then those dark, piercing eyes lock onto you.

Severus.

It feels like you're drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously can't express how much I love your comments. You guys kill me. You're all so fucking funny and smart. I know I've said this before, but here's a reminder: I'm bad at replying to comments, but I read and cherish every single one.


	43. The First Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are out of control, babies. Absolutely out of control. I love you all so much!

* * *

_And god knows I’m not dying, but I breathe now.  
_ _And god knows it’s the only way to heal now.  
_ _With all the love I lost with you,  
_ _It drowns the love I thought I knew._

"My Blood" - Ellie Goulding

* * *

You jolt, freezing like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Your smile is gone, and every trace of mirth has vanished from Sirius’ face as well. It’s replaced with loathing.

Sirius is still touching you. His hand is still on your wrist.

“Snape,” he greets, jaw tense.

Severus’ eyes don’t leave your face as he replies, “Black.”

You can’t read his expression—he’s always been good at guarding it—but you know he’s not relaxed or pleased to see you here. There’s tension in his shoulders, his jaw is set, and he won’t look away. His face is stark white between curtains of that long black hair, and his broad mouth is set in a thin line. God, he’s beautiful. Fascinating. You want to keep staring—you don’t know how you’ve been able to go so long without.

But those eyes...you’ve forgotten how intense _those fucking eyes_ can be. There’s something like horror in them now, and strikingly obvious anger.

For your part, you’d very much like to curl up under the table and simply pass away.

 _I wasn’t trying to surprise you,_ you want to scream at him, trying instead to focus on your breath. _I had no idea you’d be here!_

You hadn’t, honestly. You assumed Severus and Dumbledore conducted their spy business in private. You hadn’t even hoped.

Of course, you’re all too aware of how this must look to him.

_Desperate._

_Pathetic._

“This is [First name],” Sirius tells Severus, somewhat smug as he leans back in his chair like a prince. He finally takes his hand from your wrist, and Severus watches it go, a vein ticking in his jaw. “Dumbledore just approved her.” 

Severus’ eyes finally leave you to flick to him. “We’ve met,” he replies flatly. God, you’ve missed that voice. 

Severus looks back to you for a long second, expression forbidding, before turning suddenly away and sweeping down the table to seat himself as far from you as he can get.

Sighing, heart pounding, you force yourself to look at Sirius, who is regarding you with raised eyebrows. You shrug and lower your voice, so the conversation doesn’t carry to the rest of the group as they talk amongst themselves. “I had no idea he’d be here.”

“You had him at Hogwarts, then?” Sirius asks

 _Had him._ Terrible way to phrase it.

“Yeah.”

Sirius chuckles, patting your hand again. “Must’ve been awful,” he says consolingly, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You look terrified—not that I blame you.”

“Do I?” you ask, wishing you didn’t feel so pale and unsteady. But his arrival _shook_ you. Still, you clear your throat. “I’m not _scared_ of him. Just...not eager to see him, I guess.” You hope Sirius can’t read the lie.

“I know just how you feel,” Sirius says, leaning back and glancing down at Severus with such haughty disdain, you can easily see his blue-blooded roots. Severus always described him as arrogant, but you can see why people find it charming. It looks good on him. “I knew him as a student. Can’t imagine what he’s like as Potions Master.”

You glance down at Severus’ striking profile, drawn and silent as he withdraws a notebook from his robes and opens it. God, his jawline...his _cheekbones..._

You quickly look away. But you can’t help yourself from defending him. Sirius was, after all, tantamount to a bully when they were kids.

“He’s actually a really good teacher,” you say, staring at your hands. It comes out more strained than you’d like.

“Really?” Sirius asks, lifting an eyebrow. “The way I hear it—”

He’s interrupted when the door to the kitchen opens again. Turning, eager to get your mind off Severus—sitting only a few yards away, so close but infinitely distant—you watch nine more people file in. 

“Here they are, then,” Arthur Weasley says from his end of the table, obviously relieved. 

Sirius strains to look behind you at the newcomers. “Where’s Harry?” he asks. 

At that moment, Molly Weasley enters the room from the stairs. “He’s here,” she assures Sirius, something firm in her tone. “I’ve sent him up to see Ron and Hermione.”

“Molly...” Sirius begins, but she cuts in.

“I won’t have him here, Sirius. He’s too young.”

“But—”

“As fascinating as this is,” Severus puts in silkily, sounding bored, “perhaps we should begin the meeting. I do have things to do.” His voice makes you jump, makes your cheeks burn red. You can’t look at him, and you just have to hope no one notices.

Sirius casts a sneer at Severus, but Molly nods and everyone starts taking their seats. You’re not sure how they’re going to squeeze around the table, and you end up having to squish yourself beside Sirius to avoid colliding with a stranger. Your knees knock with his under the table, and the fucking flirt sends you a little grin. Though a full room does make it easier to pretend Severus isn’t here.

“Who’s this, now?” One of the new arrivals is looking at you, a dark skinned wizard in impeccable Ministry robes. Waving a lazy hand, Siris makes introductions.

He starts with Remus Lupin, the scarred man you recognize from your interview, who nods at you pleasantly. Alastor Moody is a familiar too, from Hogwarts—you bristle when you see him, remembering the way he searched Severus’ office. Then three witches—Hestia Jones, Emmaline Vance and Nymphadora Tonks (who quickly demands that you refer to her only by her surname. She has pink hair, which makes you faintly jealous.) The Ministry wizard is named Kingsley Shacklebolt. And finally, three more men—Elphias Doge, Dedalus Diggle and Sturgis Podmore.

You’re not sure how you’re supposed to remember all these names, but you figure you’ll get it in time.

Severus manages to keep silent through the introductions, but as soon as they’re finished he lets loose a long-suffering sigh and sits back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“And now,” he says, as if your presence and the niceties required because of it are the most inconvenient things he’s ever experienced, “we can actually begin.” And though his voice sends a jolt through you, you find a wonderfully empowering anger blooming too. _He’s such an ass._

“You said you had news,” Moody growls. Severus nods. “Have you discovered _where_ the bloody bastard is yet?”

“A small village about three hundred kilometers from here,” Severus replies. “Little Hangleton. His old family home.”

A dark look sweeps around the group. You shiver—they could only be talking about the Dark Lord, and you suddenly feel extremely alone and out of your depth. What the fuck are you _doing here?_ You don’t belong here! You know it, Severus knows it, and soon the rest of them will know it too.

“We organize a raid then,” Sirius says, already seeming like he’s about to shoot out of his chair. “Burst in before he can gather more support.” Sturgis Podmore nods, but the others look more reluctant.

“We shouldn’t be rash,” Remus puts in gently.

“We should not be _stupid,”_ Severus spits, glaring at Sirius. “The Dark Lord is well protected. Simply knowing the name of the place means _nothing.”_

“Like walking straight into the lion’s den, I reckon,” Tonks says.

“Into its _mouth,”_ Severus agrees. _“Asking_ it to eat you.”

“How many do you think we’d need?” Bill puts in from the end of the table. “To stand a chance.” He looks around. “We could gather more—”

“This is not about _numbers,”_ Severus interrupts harshly. “Attacking the Dark Lord at his home would be suicide for an army of thousands.”

You must look as stricken as you feel— _thousands? Is that true?—_ because Sirius reaches out and squeezes your shoulder bracingly. Meeting his eyes, he sends you an encouraging wink. It doesn’t help—it just makes you feel worse, that you’re showing fear. You deeply wish that you could just find strength in Severus. You wish his presence didn’t make him feel more removed from you than ever.

“Course it’s suicide,” growls Moody. “Snape’s right. We need to draw him out into the open. Get a clear shot.” He fixes his regular eye on Severus while his magical one rolls about. “How many Death Eaters he have now?”

“More every day,” Severus replies gravely. And you can’t help it—you turn to stare at him again, his sharp profile and the craggy lines of his face. You know he’s pale but...has he always been _this_ pale?

 _Jesus. What has he been through this summer?_ Your heart suddenly aches for him, and you wish it wouldn’t.

Sirius slumps back in his chair, clearly not sharing your sympathy. “Any bloody _names_ to go with all your warnings?” he asks venomously. “Or shall we just start guessing?”

Severus doesn’t rise to his aggression. He simply regards him coldly, eyes avoiding you, and says, “Most of them are familiar faces. Your old friend, Pettigrew is there, of course.”

“Yes, that much we know,” Remus puts in, more mildly than Sirius. “Who else?”

“I have seen Crabbe, Nott and Goyle,” Snape says. “Avery. The Carrows. Yaxley.” He thinks a moment before: “And Lucius Malfoy is back too. Surprising no one.”

 _“Malfoy,”_ Arthur spits from his end of the table. “Biding his time all these years. Infiltrating the Ministry.”

“This is bad,” Moody snarls. “Last time it took him years to gather that many. Now he’s already starting out ahead.”

“What does that mean for us?” Hestia asks.

“Means things’ll go fast,” Moody replies. “Fast as he can make them. I don’t doubt he’s already cooking up something big.”

“He is.” Severus’ voice is quiet and silky, but every face at the table turns to him quickly. You’d almost forgotten how completely he can command a room. His glittering black eyes flick around the table...and when they get to you, he freezes. Almost as if he forgot you were there, or seeing you is a shock again. You meet his gaze, drawn in as much as you want to escape it, and you stare at each other for a few lingering seconds. You can’t read what’s going on behind those eyes.

“Well?” Moody asks brusquely, and Severus immediately looks away. You return to staring at the tabletop, letting the words wash over you but not really absorbing them.

“I doubt,” Severus begins, “many of you will be aware of this, but Dumbledore requested that I explain. It involves the Dark Lord’s attempt to murder Harry Potter fourteen years ago.” You glance around—Sturgis Podmore shifts forward, and Tonks is staring with wide eyes. “It was, of course, not a random attack,” Severus continues, “as anyone with half a brain could tell you. He targeted Potter specifically, and for a very particular reason.”

“It weren’t his parents he was after, then?” Mundungus Fletcher asks.

To your surprise, Severus is not the one to answer this question. Sirius does instead, his eyes downcast as he swirls the wine in his goblet. “No,” he says quietly. The sadness in his voice makes you want to reach out to him. “It was Harry.”

“Yes,” Severus continues. His eyes are fixed on the table, his long fingers slowly tracing the cover of the notebook he’s set before him. “A prophecy was made about the boy.”

“A prophecy?” Tonks asks, sounding awed.

“A real one?” Fleur adds, glancing at Bill. You have to admit, you’re a bit surprised too. You always thought prophecies were sort of like hidebehinds—you know they exist, but they’re rare enough that they’re practically mythological.

Severus nods, sending a sharp glance at the girls, who go quiet. Tonks rolls her eyes though, which makes you smile. 

“A real one,” he says, no lack of scorn in his tone. “Made by Sybill Trelawney in 1979. It describes the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. It...seemed to indicate it was the boy.”

Reaction ripples around the table, and you have to admit, you’re shocked too. This...Doesn’t this change everything? Shouldn’t you be putting all your faith in Potter then? Shouldn’t you be backing him up with every resource you have? Shouldn’t he, as Sirius clearly believes, actually fucking _be here?_ If he’s legitimately _fated_ to kill You-Know-Who...Well, that’s it, isn’t it? The war is won. 

Though, you suppose, if what Severus said was accurate, the prophecy only names Potter the one with the _power_ to defeat him. It doesn’t actually say he _will._ That’s kind of a huge clarification to make, actually...

You look up, opening your mouth to speak for the first time. You want to know the exact wording of the prophecy.

Unfortunately, Severus speaks first, cutting through the low muttering around the table. “The Dark Lord was consumed by the idea. I believe he feared it, if he can be said to fear anything. As soon as he heard of the prophecy, he set out to undo it.”

“And who told him, Snape?” Sirius’ voice makes you jump, and you turn to look at him. He’s tense, furious, staring at Severus and clearly wishing him dead. “Who told him about it? Who got James and Lily killed?”

“Sirius...” Remus’ gentle voice comes from across the table, but Sirius ignores it.

He and Severus have a long staredown, neither breaking. Both faces are pale and intense, and you can’t help but look back and forth between them anxiously. They both look like they could easily hex the other—you feel Sirius shift beside you, surely reaching for his wand, and you can only imagine Severus has his hand already clenched around his own.

You know that Sirius’ implication is true—Severus must, in fact, be the one who revealed the prophecy to the Dark Lord. He told you himself that he led You-Know-Who to Lily, though he hadn’t shared the details. It’s a huge reason behind his guilt and self-loathing. If you yourself weren’t so mad at him at the moment, you’d hate Sirius for bringing it up. It’s not as if Severus hasn’t spent every second of the last fourteen years regretting his choices.

All the same, someone needs to defuse the tension around the table. Both wizards look like they’re ready to attack—they’re still staring daggers at each other. So you do the only thing you think will help.

You reach out and grab Sirius’ hand. It is, indeed, wrapped around his wand.

His gaze is distracted toward you instantly, a bit of shock in his dark-ringed eyes. His fingers are rougher than Severus’, and not quite as long, but his skin is warm and his hands are graceful. You squeeze until his grip around his wand loosens, and he allows you to pry them away.

“Don’t,” you say, almost under your breath, so only Sirius can hear. You’re not sure why you think he’ll listen—it’s not like you’re friends yet—but you think he just needs to be distracted from his hatred.

You seem to be right. After a moment, Sirius relaxes and gives your hand a brief squeeze before pulling away. He shifts down in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Go on, then,” he spits at Severus. “Say what you need to.”

You turn to look at Severus, who is watching the interaction silently. His jaw is clenched, he’s clearly angry, but you’re not sure if it’s because he hates Sirius, or because it’s clear that you don’t.

“As I was saying,” he drawls after a long moment, leaning back in his chair and thoroughly regaining his dignity, “the Dark Lord was obsessed with the prophecy. He knew enough to track down the Potters, but he did not know what would happen when he tried to kill the boy. His information was...incomplete.”

“How’s that?” Kingsley Shacklebolt asks. 

Severus’ clever black eyes flick to him. “He never heard it in full—only the first sentence or so.”

“Sorry,” Tonks says slowly, leaning forward and frowning. “This is ancient history, innit? What’s it got to do with us?”

“I should think it was obvious,” Severus replies contemplatively, running his fingers slowly over his lips. His eyes are distant—perhaps lost in the past. “The Dark Lord is determined to hear the full prophecy. He believes it will give him the information he needs to avoid his fate and destroy Harry Potter.”

“And will it?” you ask. The words are already out of your mouth before you realize you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. Every eye at the table flicks to you, including Severus’, and you work hard to keep from flinching.

Severus’ voice is icy and clipped when he replies. “That, I think, is not pertinent, Miss [Last name]. At least, not in Dumbledore’s opinion.”

Anger blossoms in you, and you find the strength to stare him down. “But—”

“The _point,”_ he interrupts, looking away, “is that whatever information the full prophecy contains, it could assist the Dark Lord in his goals. We cannot allow him to retrieve it.”

“Retrieve?” Fleur asks, looking at Bill. “From where?” You’re grateful to her—you want clarification too, though most of the table already seems to know.

“Ministry of Magic,” Moody says. “The Hall of Prophecy.”

You spend the next hour down in that kitchen, discussing various ways of keeping the Death Eaters away from the Department of Mysteries. You learn a lot about prophecy recording and how they are stored, and you learn that the only person who can take a prophecy from its shelves in the basement of the ministry is the one about whom it was made. Thus, only Harry Potter or the Dark Lord himself.

This seems like good news, at first. You all collectively doubt that the Dark Lord will personally travel to the ministry, and Potter will be at Hogwarts for the rest of the year. Still, everyone agrees that rotating guard shifts should be established, and you spend quite a lot of time on that.

You, of course, are not given any assignments, which you understand. You want to be of help, but you’re not a ministry employee, so it’s not like you could guard the prophecy. But when other jobs are being delegated (shadowing known Death Eaters, making deliveries, recruitment) you are once again passed by. Moody mentions that Dumbledore wants you to just watch and absorb how things are done around here.

“For the first few weeks, at least,” he says.

“A few _weeks?”_ you ask, frustrated. You signed up to help, not sit around at home base.

Sirius pats your arm consolingly. “I’m cooped up too,” he says. “But we have to listen to the old man, don’t we?”

“We’d appreciate help getting this place fixed up, dear,” Molly says. “No one’s lived here for ages, and it shows. It’s a group effort.”

You plaster a smile on your face and nod, but your heart sinks. Maid duty? You don’t want to be stuck in Grimmauld Place on _maid duty!_ You’re good for more than that—you know you are. 

You glance sidelong down the table at Severus and grimace. He looks entirely too smug for your liking. Perhaps he’s enjoying seeing you humiliated. Perhaps he really does hate you.

The meeting concludes shortly after, and the Order members rise from the table, stretching and grumbling, and start to head upstairs. You’re one of the first out of the room, intent on avoiding Severus as everyone trickles into the front hall. You want to stick around, ask if Fred and George are here, but Arthur has disappeared and Bill is currently deep in talks with Kingsley. You don’t want to interrupt, so you kind of linger by the wall, occasionally shaking hands as people give their farewells and tell you how good it was to meet you. You hope they’re being genuine. You like the Order members immensely (with a couple significant exceptions). They feel like you stand a chance against the Dark Lord. They feel like hope.

Tonks has just left you, after demanding you get together for a drink sometime. She’s only a couple years older than you, and she seems funny and cool, and you need more female friends, so you readily agree. You watch her skirt around Sirius and Remus, trailing a hand along Remus’ arm. Bill appears behind her then, apparently finished with Kingsley.

You push away from the wall, determined to ask after the twins. You heard toward their brother, sliding around Order members...before your right wrist is suddenly seized in a firm grip.

You manage a tiny gasp as you are tugged backwards through the crowd, around a narrow corner and into a small room off the hall. It’s dark inside, heavy drapes pulled across dusty windows, but as the door clicks closed behind you, you already know who’s behind this. You’d recognize those long, thin fingers anywhere. 

“Get off,” you hiss, twisting your wrist in his grip and lowering your voice, wary of the others just outside. How _dare_ he drag you out of there like a ragdoll?

Severus doesn’t release you—far from it. Instead, he drives you quickly into the room, robes billowing behind him, until you bump back against the opposite wall. You gasp, and he follows close behind, pinning your right wrist beside you, still wrapped in his firm fingers. His body isn’t touching yours—though you can feel the heat from him—but for a moment, you want to close your eyes. Even this meager amount of contact feels like heaven after so long without him.

The moment passes swiftly. You remember to be angry, affronted by his physicality, and he certainly hasn’t forgotten his own rage. Even through the dim light, you can see his teeth are bared and his eyes are black.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Severus hisses, his voice low and intent. There’s a hitch in his throat though, a tremor that sounds suspiciously like sadness, and it catches you off guard.

“What?” you ask stupidly, slightly breathless as you search his eyes. He’s overwhelming you. His presence, his voice, his smell. You feel, once again, like you’re drowning. “What do you mean?”

“Are you a fool?” Severus spits rhetorically. “What do you _think_ I mean?”

You have to gather yourself, get your brain back in gear. Your presence clearly isn’t affecting him as deeply as his affects you. But you refuse to show him that. You won’t sacrifice your pride.

So you square your shoulders and push against the wrist he has pinned back. He doesn’t yield his grip on it, however—instead, his other hand comes up to brace the wall beside your head, spread fingered and huge. He leans toward you, menacing.

“The Order?” he asks, and there’s a hint of desperation in his voice. “The _Order,_ [First name]?” He shakes his head. “If this is some misguided attempt to take revenge on me—”

You laugh aloud at that, spiteful. “You _would,”_ you spit. “As if this has anything to _do_ with you.” Not quite the truth, but damn him if you’ll ever admit that. You try to shake out of his grip again, but his fingers just tighten. 

“What is it then?” Severus asks, white with fury. “Just a whim? A way to spend the summer? Or do you actually _want_ to destroy your life?”

“I want to fucking help!” you snap, a bit louder than perhaps you should be. “I didn’t even know you’d be here. Not all of us are full of ulterior motives, _Severus.”_ You shove him in the shoulder with your free hand, but it doesn’t budge him.

Instead, he jolts closer to you. _“Everything_ I did—“ He cuts himself off, teeth clenched, then smacks the wall beside your head, making you jump. “You were _supposed_ to stay as far from this as you could.” He closes his eyes, frustrated beyond measure, and balls his hand into a fist. “You were supposed to stay _safe!”_

“That’s not exactly your problem anymore,” you reply coldly. “You made damn sure of that.” 

His eyes fly open again. “You _damnable_ thing!” he snarls. “You _child!”_ You don’t think you’ve ever heard him this angry, and it scares you “Don’t you _understand?”_

“No!” you cry, and you finally rip out of his grasp, reaching up to shove him roughly away with both hands this time. 

It works. He staggers back, and you feel sudden tears spring to your eyes. You brush them impatiently away, furious with yourself. You can’t _cry,_ not now, goddammit! 

“I _don’t_ fucking _understand,”_ you say, wiping your nose roughly with your sleeve. But even if you can’t stop the tears from rolling down your cheeks, at least your voice is conveying your wrath. “The way you left, the way you’ve ignored me—that was _horrible!_ That was _cruel!_ But somehow _I’m_ the bad guy here?”

“I had my reasons,” Severus snaps, casting you a harsh glance. “You know that.”

“So you did get my letters,” you say, and it feels like your heart breaks all over again. He  _ was _ being actively cruel, then.

Severus flinches back, teeth bared.  “This is not  _ about  _ that,” he hisses.

You laugh scornfully, still crying. “Of course not,” you reply. _“I_ don’t get to have a say. I’m just a fucking _child!”_

“That is more obvious than ever,” he agrees between gritted teeth, gesturing vaguely around, as if this proves it. You scoff angrily, pushing off the wall and making to move past him.

But he doesn’t let you get far. He turns after you, striking like a snake and grabbing your wrist again—your left this time. You’re jolted to a halt, and you look back at him, expecting him to start spewing more filth.

But he freezes. You can’t read his face—his jaw clenches, and something profound flashes through his eyes. Shock, maybe. He’s looking down, and you follow his gaze to your wrist—to the bracelet still locked around it, the tiny S charm dangling off.

_Fuck._

A panicked fluttering hits your chest, and you tug against him, desperate to get away from this interaction. But he doesn’t release you—he just stares at the bracelet. The one signifying your bond. The one you haven’t disenchanted and taken off for whatever _pathetic fucking reason._

You’re crying harder now, trying to twist out of his grasp. “Let me go.” Your whisper is broken, pitiful.

Finally, Severus’ eyes flick up to lock onto yours. You wish desperately for some sign as to what he’s thinking, but his face is a mask. 

“[First name]...” Is that scorn in his voice? Tenderness? A warning? You can’t tell—it could easily be any of them.

“Let me _go,”_ you repeat.

Severus opens his mouth to say something. But he doesn’t get the chance.

“Wonder if she’s in here!”

The door behind you is suddenly thrown open, and light from the hallway streams into the room. Two figures lean inside, backlit, peering around the doorframe.

“[First name]?”

Shit. _George._

You rip away from Severus, but it’s too late—there’s no way the twins missed his hand around your wrist. Nor can they miss the way your eyes are red and puffy, your face wet from crying. Nor, you suppose, can they miss the intense expression on Severus’ pale features.

“Oh,” Fred says flatly, and you think that’s the only appropriate thing to say at the moment.

“Er...” George adds, which, again, is perfectly appropriate. The four of you just kind of...stare at each other for a long time.

Severus is the first to recover. He rolls his eyes, casting the twins a wicked sneer, and stalks away from you without a second glance.

“Out of the way,” he orders when he reaches Fred and George, who are, indeed, blocking the doorway. They scramble back, and Severus sweeps quickly around the corner and out of sight.

You put a shaking hand to your mouth, your breath hitching uncontrollably as you try to bottle the rising sobs. You need a moment to collect yourself—just a fucking moment, just to wipe your eyes and take some deep breaths. You wish you could dissolve into the shadows, or go invisible and run, just run, because you can’t answer questions right now, or have them look at you with concern and confusion, you just _can’t._

But the twins are back in the doorway—George in the lead, Fred lingering awkwardly behind him. They’re watching you, and you turn your back to them, throwing your head back in frustration and squeezing your eyelids closed. Your chest hitches again—you can’t seem to fucking _stop crying_ —and you groan at yourself, pressing the heels of your palms hard to your eyes.

“Alright, love?” George asks gently after a long moment. 

You inhale deeply through your nose, then turn around to face them with a wide smile. “Yep!” you chirp, aware this looks pathetically false. “Totally good.”

Neither of them believe you, that much is clear. George’s frown deepens, and Fred checks behind his shoulder, then nudges his brother into the room and closes the door behind them. Your heart sinks. They’re offering to be _supportive,_ which is the worst thing they could do. Damn them and their sweet hearts.

“Seriously,” you say, before either can speak. “Everything’s fine.”

Fred actually rolls his eyes at that. “That explains why you’re sobbing,” he says flatly. “Doesn’t it, George?”

“I always sob when everything’s fine,” George agrees. His look darkens as he glances back to the door. “Snape bothering you, then?”

You shrug, covering your eyes with your hands again and taking deep breaths in through your nose. The good news is, the urge to cry is receding. Though when you speak, your breath is still a bit shaky. “He, uh...was berating me.” You’ll give them a bit of truth, you figure, just to get them off your back. Just not the whole story. “He thinks I’m too young to be here. Thinks I’m...throwing my life away.”

Fred nods sagely, but George is still watching you, eyebrows furrowed. Inwardly, you sigh. He probably knows you well enough to tell when you’re hiding things, and he certainly knows you well enough to know this usually wouldn’t affect you so profoundly. Not if it was McGonagall or another teacher, anyway.

“What does he know?” Fred says, moving forward to wrap an arm around your shoulder. “Sour old git, just because _he’s_ thrown his life away.” You chuckle weakly, sniffing, and look down at the ground.

“Must’ve been harsh,” George says, “to make you cry like that.” He’s _prying,_ damn him.

You meet his eye, shrugging. “Snape knows how to push my buttons,” you reply. “He knows I look up to him, so he uses that to slip his knife in.”

“Look up to _Snape?”_ Fred asks, clearly disgusted by the idea. This actually does make you laugh, genuinely. Fucking Gryffindors.

“He’s a brilliant Potions Master,” you reply, shrugging. “If you can get past the snide remarks.”

“He grabbed you though,” George says softly, thoughtfully. He reaches down to your left hand, picking it up to hold it gently in both hands. “Where’s he get off, grabbing you like that?” His eyes are trained down, thumbs moving back and forth across your knuckles.

“It’s fine,” you say, trying to pull back. George’s grip tightens, however, and he goes still. 

You watch it happen. You watch him catch sight of the bracelet. The dangling silver S. The exact thing that had Severus’ attention when they barged in.

George isn’t stupid. You know that—he’s actually one of the cleverest people you’ve ever met. And you watch the gears start turning behind his eyes as they remain fixed to the jewelry on your wrist. Not like it’s a terribly difficult puzzle to solve, you think—not after seeing the interaction between you and Severus just now. The way you were standing close together, Severus’ hand clamped around your wrist. The heated whispers, the fire in both your eyes. His abrupt exit. Your tears.

It looked exactly like what it was—a lovers’ quarrel. Or an ex-lovers’ quarrel, technically. But the intimacy must have been unmistakable.

George meets your eyes, brows still furrowed, broad mouth grim. His rough fingers brush the silver strands of the bracelet for an instant before he releases you.

“Seriously, it’s fine,” you whisper.

“If you say so, [Last name],” he says. _Fuck._ He hasn’t called you by your surname in a long time.

Fred is watching this interaction, clearly not understanding the intricacies, nor why you’re suddenly both so grim.

“Riiiight...” he says carefully. Then his face splits into that wide, mischievous grin, and he slaps you on the back and looks to his brother. “So! Didn’t we have something to show her, George?”

George’s face lightens a bit, which is a relief. Maybe he _doesn’t_ know. “We absolutely did, Fred.” He turns to you, actually smiling now. As usual, it brings a smile to your own face. “Or _someone,_ more like.”

“Potter?” you ask eagerly. You’ve made the twins promise to introduce you to the Boy Who Lived as soon as possible.

Fred and George beam at you identically. “Potter,” they reply together.


End file.
